


What Season May Come

by Sorrel



Series: What Season May Come [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Failboats In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Male-Female Friendship, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorrel/pseuds/Sorrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Cullen was a lad, he was in love with Nancy the butcher's daughter, and he always thought that he'd win her one day by doing something dashing and impressive, like rescuing her from pirates or maybe single-handedly slaying a dragon.  As a young Templar, moonstruck by an apprentice with a charming smile, he pictured himself sending little flowers and love notes and small treasures, a sweet, rose-tinted forbidden liaison.  (Not that he ever did any of those things- it would have been <i>inappropriate</i>- but he <i>thought</i> about doing them.  Quite extensively.)  His dreams were all very romantic, and noble, and they involved very little blood, even when decapitating the theoretical pirates.</p><p>  When he finally <i>does </i>meet the love of his life, reality does not live up to the romance of his imaginings."</p><p>Cullen and Evelyn, finding common ground and unexpected friendship in the most unlikely of places.  (Not to mention the demons, politics, and a simple little quest to save the world.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the tavern song "Empress of Fire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is almost complete. I'm about two thirds of way through the final chapter. I hope to post on Wednesdays and Fridays until complete.

When Cullen was a lad, he was in love with Nancy the butcher's daughter, and he always thought that he'd win her one day by doing something dashing and impressive, like rescuing her from pirates or maybe single-handedly slaying a dragon. As a young Templar, moonstruck by an apprentice with a charming smile, he pictured himself sending little flowers and love notes and small treasures, a sweet, rose-tinted forbidden liaison. (Not that he ever did any of those things- it would have been _inappropriate_ \- but he _thought_ about doing them. Quite extensively.) His dreams were all very romantic, and noble, and they involved very little blood, even when decapitating the theoretical pirates.

When he finally _does_ meet the love of his life, reality does not live up to the romance of his imaginings.

Cassandra's message does not tell them why they're charging to the Temple, only that it _must_ be done. _Must_ is underlined twice, the point of the pen nearly ripped through the parchment. He hasn't seen the Lady Seeker since he led their forces into the valley to try and stem the tide of demons, but the angular, spiky writing is unmistakably hers. He only hopes that whatever madcap plan she's cooked up will bear fruit, because he's not sure they'll have enough troops left to push back down into the valley if this doesn't work.

They make it all the way to the last ridge before their luck runs out, and a rift tears open right above their heads. Three men go down under the initial tide of shades that spill out, but the rest get their shields up in time, thank the Maker. Even so, they're scattered from their tight shield wall, and the shades mill about mindlessly between them, slashing with their great claws.

One of the larger ones gets Cullen pinned between it and the crumbling remains of the wall, and two straight days of fighting have left him too exhausted to fend off the thing's attacks for long. _Maker preserve me,_ he prays, his injured shoulder screaming as he takes another blow against his battered shield, _take me into your hands and deliver me from evil…_

This demon seems marginally more intelligent than its comrades, and a moment later it manages to hook a claw over the edge of his shield, tearing it away from hand and breaking one of his fingers in the process. Gritting his teeth, he brings up his sword and grips it with both hands, ready to defend himself as best as possible and knowing still that he's going to die here, in the mud, while the world ends around him. His death at the hands of demons wasn't thwarted after all but merely delayed some years, and now everything he's worked for, everything he's tried to become, will come to _nothing._

And then there is a hissing noise like water on a hot griddle, and the shade erupts into flames. Cullen gives an undignified shout of alarm and scrambles backwards, but the thing gives a panicked flail of its spindly limbs and then something bright strikes it from behind and it falls to the ground, its skull caved in. Standing over its burning corpse is a woman with short dark hair and lyrium-blue eyes, holding a quarterstaff intended for a much taller individual in a _la canne_ -style ready position like some Marcher chevalier. Except that no chevalier can make their weapon _glow_ at one end, which means she must be-

"Hello," the mage says, a crazy grin splitting her face. "Looked like you could use a hand."

"Well met," he says, a little dumbly, then gets his sword up just in time to thrust over her shoulder and through the chest of a shade about to wrap its paws around her head. "And thank you."

She whirls and disintegrates the flailing shade with a sharp gesture, then grins back over her shoulder at him. "Thank _you,_ serrah," she says, and then she's gone, ducking away from another blow and coming up on the far side of the demon's body. As the fight continues, he doesn't see her again, but once or twice he hears that alarming hiss and a fireball strikes a demon in his path, so he knows she can't be far.

The reinforcements keep them from extinction, but the demons keep coming. Cullen stabs, sunders, and beheads so many shades he starts to feel like his whole body is just a machine to move his sword point, that his whole world is just steel, and mud, and the endless sickening green glow of the rift above him…

...until, abruptly, it's gone.

He stands there for a moment, the realization that the demons are gone only sinking in when no more present themselves for his blade. He looks around, almost in shock, and sees the mage who rescued him earlier standing next to the Lady Seeker. The relief he feels is near enough to sink him to his knees.

"Lady Cassandra!" he calls, sheathing his sword and crossing to her. "You managed to close the Rift. Well done."

"Do not thank me, Commander," she replies. Her voice is worn thin from its usual brisk energy, but her tone is jubilant with victory. "This was the prisoner's doing."

"It is?" He looks back at the mage, who leans on her makeshift staff and doesn't meet his gaze. "Hmm. Lady Seeker, are you sure this is… wise?"

It's as close to criticism as he can voice, in front of his soldiers, but Cassandra either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "Solas tells me that if she can close the first, greatest rift, then the Breach will seal as well," she informs him. "We have to get to the Temple."

"Preferably before another one of those opens up on top of us," the mage says, drawing his attention back to her. This time, she meets his eyes almost defiantly.

If circumstances were different, he'd probably think she was pretty enough, in severe, well-bred sort of way. Her high, sharp cheekbones give her a haughty cast, though the hollows underneath speak to privation; the effect is only somewhat ruined by her slightly-too-large snub of a nose, a bright red scratch across the bridge from some misadventure on the field. She has very bright blue eyes he noticed even in the heat of battle and that pale clear skin that only nobles and scholars have, marred only by a scar across the left side of her face. It's a long horizontal slash, starting at the hinge of her jaw and swooping down across her cheek nearly to her chin, long ago healed into a thin scuffed line of pale tissue. It pulls strangely when she gives him a nervous frown, making her face look a little lopsided.

So this is her. This is the woman that most likely opened the Breach, murdered the Divine, the entire Conclave, and any hope of peace, and fell out of the Fade only to wake with not a memory of word or deed. And she's standing here in the mud, surrounded by demon corpses and clearly waiting for him to strike at her for knowing it. Though she just saved his life, he's more than a little tempted.

_Why is it always mages,_ he thinks despairingly.

"I hope they're right about you," he says instead. "We've lost a lot of people getting you here."

She rubs the back of her neck, the other hand still fidgety around her staff. "Maker, you're not the only one hoping that," she says with an exhausted breath. She even _sounds_ like a noble, smooth round vowels and crisp enunciation. "We'll lose a lot more people, otherwise."

It can't be easy, to have such a weight riding on her shoulders. But still- if she's done this, if she's responsible for all this pain and death and grief...

"We'll see soon enough, won't we?" he says gruffly, and turns away.

**~*~**

The mage has to be carried back to Haven on a litter, as no amount of magic or shouting (Varric tries) can rouse her. Privately, Cullen thinks that that has just as much to do with the enormous demon she killed before closing the Rift as it does with the Rift itself, but Solas is all a-twitter again, so she's winkled to one of the infirmary buildings as fast as they can get her there. She lies so still on the bed that Cullen wonders how she could still live, but their apothecary forces a tonic down her throat and says, grumpily, that she merely needs rest, before shooing them all out of the room.

Cullen jerks his head towards the upper walk, and Cassandra follows without pause. They walk in silence until they're far enough to be be well out of earshot from any curious villagers, and finally Cullen says, "She did it."

"She did," Cassandra says. There's exhaustion in her voice, but something else that Cullen hasn't heard since the Divine's death: hope. "I have never seen anything like it. If all mages had her force of will, I think abominations would be a thing of the past."

"That's practically fawning, for you, Lady Seeker," he told her with raised eyebrows. He's heard the rumors going around camp already, and it's been less than a day. The Herald of Andraste, delivered by the hands of the Maker's Bride herself, given to them in their hour of need. So quickly has the hate turned to love, just as slavish. Cullen isn't convinced. He knows too well how easily devotion can be turned to evil purpose. "Especially considering that when I saw you last, you were convinced that she was the cause of the disaster."

Cassandra shifts her shoulders, something that might be a shrug in a less controlled woman. "You were not at the temple. You did not hear."

"Sister Leliana told me." He finds a bench and brushes off the snow, taking a seat. He took a bad blow to the thigh in the skirmish and doesn't want to remain on his feet any longer than necessary, but Cassandra leans against a nearby tree, arms crossed over her chest. "Was it truly Justinia's voice?"

"Yes," she said definitely.

"So sure?"

"It is not something I would mistake," she said repressively. "I admit that I know less of the workings of the Fade than some, but it was no phantasm, called to taunt me. We all heard her, and Leliana is as certain as I. Lady Trevelyan might not remember, but the Rift held the echoes of the moment that sent her into it. The one who opened it sacrificed our Divine, and the woman I took for her killer almost died trying to save her."

"Even if she was innocent of that particular crime, it doesn't mean that one of her compatriots isn't guilty," he argues, mostly to see what she'll say.

"True," she says immediately. "We still have much to learn. I had Leliana check up on her while she… slept, before." Cullen's surprise must show on his face, because she arches her eyebrows, almost playfully. "Commander, you wound me if you think I would not do my due diligence when she was in my custody."

"Fair enough." _Diligence_ might as well be one of her endless middle names. "What did you learn? She _was_ there as a member of the rebellion, correct?"

"Yes, but she was not one of the speakers. According to Leliana, her agents cannot find anyone who knows _what_ she was doing there, nor what standing she might have had in the rebellion."

"So what _do_ we know?"

"Her name is Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, the younger of two children of the Bann of Ostwick, twenty-five years old and a member in good standing of the Aequitarian college. She is known to have been a fixture of the Bann's Firstday balls though no other part of the Marcher social circuit, and at the time of the rebellion had not been present in her Circle for more than a few token appearances a year. As she had been apprenticed under the Circle's resident Knight-Enchanter, it's likely that she was serving with the Ostwick army to complete her training." Cassandra sighs. "It is not much, I know."

On the contrary, it's quite a lot. A Knight-Enchanter? Those are rare, though more common outside of Fereldan, as he understands it. He's never met one personally- if one had ever served in the Kirkwall circle, he or she had escaped or been neutralized by Meredith long before Cullen served there. Still, he's heard stories from other Templars and soldiers alike, and he knows that as a breed they're formidable fighters and capable commanders, trained to lead from the front line. No wonder she flung herself so fearlessly into battle- it would be more familiar to her than anything else, after several years of service. And if she completed her training, then she held rank greater than that even of her noble birth.

"None of it marks her as innocent," Cassandra continues, heedless of his speculations, "but none of it marks her as guilty, either, and the vision we saw at the Temple of Sacred Ashes is… compelling."

Not having witnessed it himself, he will simply have to take her word for it. Luckily, Cassandra's word is good. "So you truly believe that she was innocent in the creation of the Breach?"

"I do," Cassandra says firmly. "I cannot say that same for her compatriots, but for her, yes. Even before the Temple…"

She pauses, and he waits patiently, used to the time she sometimes needs to take to let her words catch up to the decisions she makes in moments. "She has spirit," she says finally. "She remembered nothing of what had happened, stood there with all the town viewing her with hate, and knew that attempting to close the Breach might very well kill her. And she chose to come along willingly. When we were attacked by demons, she did not try to run, but instead turned her magic to my defense. She is... an honorable woman."

Cassandra prizes honor above even devotion. In her mind, there is no higher praise.

"All right," Cullen says after a moment. "I suppose I have to believe you, then. But Maker! The Herald of Andraste?" He shakes his head. "Do you believe that, as well?"

Cassandra is silent for a long moment, until he finds himself backpedaling. The strange forced intimacy that comes from her observance and support of his withdrawal does not mean that he can take liberties with her personal thoughts. "Forgive me, I should not have overstepped-"

"No, it is a fair question," she says quietly. She spreads her gloved hands. "Lady Trevelyan remembers nothing, save a vague impression of a faceless woman. Those who saw her emerge from the Rift also saw this woman. The veil between the Fade is split asunder and demons cross freely, and yet here is one given the power to close them, who survived the impossible and woke to save us when everything that everyone knows says that she should have died. Do I believe that she's a Herald from the Maker's Bride herself? I do not know. But it is hard to deny that she is exactly what we needed, at exactly the moment we needed her." She looks over at him, her gray eyes are filled with wonder. "I find I cannot help but believe that it must have been the work of the Maker. One way or another."

"I will take that under consideration," he says quietly. They both fall silent a moment, and then he clears his throat. "Do you know when she will wake?"

"Soon, I hope," she says briskly, eager to leave the previous subject behind as he. "The Breach is still in the sky, though it has been stabilized. And Chancellor Roderick-"

"Don't speak to me of that yapping old cur," Cullen growls. "If I have to hear him speak of his _authority_ one more time-"

"You and I both, Commander," Cassandra sighs. She straightens away from the tree, and stretches her neck one way and then the other, as he has seen her do before battle. "We shall simply have to manage him. Perhaps Lady Trevelyan will have something to say that will quiet his fears when she wakes."

"And perhaps the moon is made of green cheese," Cullen returns. "Nothing will silence that man."

"Perhaps you are right," she says wryly. She waits politely while he leverages himself back to his feet- cursing his bad leg, and trying not to think about how little such a hurt would affect him with lyrium in his blood- and then falls into step with him as they head back down the path. "We will simply have to manage, Commander. If we truly intend to pursue this path, the Chancellor will be the least of our worries."

"Do you doubt that this is the right thing to do?"

"No," Cassandra says firmly. "Before her death, the Divine organized the Inquisition. She knew that this would be necessary. I doubt she could have imagined these circumstances, but the need is only greater now than before. This is the only course left to us."

"As it happens, I agree." He offers her a small smile, and while she doesn't return it, her eyes grow a little warmer. "I am with this till the end. Wherever it leads."

"I would never question your loyalty, Commander," she says, and then peers up at him with a distant frown and adds, " _Nor_ your capabilities."

It's as if she's peered into the depths of his soul and seen the doubts that flourish in the small, dusty corners. He's been free of the lyrium for more than half a year, now, and for the most part, he's found the worst of the withdrawals to be behind him. But times like these are trying to the sturdiest hearts, and Cullen even on his better days is quite far from that- closer instead to a clay pot, patched together far too many times and full of naught but worries. On the field, he had time for nothing but survival, but with the Breach at least temporarily stabilized, the doubts have been creeping back in.

Cassandra, of course, refuses to believe that he is capable of anything less than the utterly impossible. He has learned, by now, to believe in that even when other faiths seem past his grasp. Blasphemous, perhaps. But reassuring for all of that.

"I- thank you," he says, and at her short nod they part ways at the village gates.

He finds himself pausing there for a moment, just letting it sink in. They've been gathering these forces for some months now, the Inquisition always the goal as they all knew that the Conclave would fail, but still… To see it like this, to see all these people moving around, busy with purpose and murmured prayers on everyone's lips… It's awe-inspiring. Concerning that it's centered around the mage that sleeps on still, but there have been worse things. Cassandra trusts her, and Cullen has done worse than follow the Seeker's lead before.

**~*~**

Lady Trevelyan sleeps for three straight days. On the second day, Adan manages to get her semi-conscious enough to get half a bowl of broth down her throat, but she collapses again immediately after, and Adan reports that she likely won't remember it. That she woke up at all is a good sign, he tells them, but even Cullen can tell how worried he is, the same as Solas, whose best attempts at healing spells seem to have no effect. They both worry that the exertion of closing the first Rift was too much, that whatever magic put the mark on her hand and ate at her with every growth of the Breach took too much of her to heal. They worry that she'll not wake up at all.

Considering the circumstances, he can actually understand why people mutter the word _miracle_ when he sees her striding through town, hale and healthy once more.

Speaking objectively, she doesn't cut a particularly impressive figure. She's not particularly tall or over-muscled, just leggy and on the thin side of lean, too long without a proper meal. She doesn't have any of Cassandra's imposing presence, nor Josephine's classic beauty, though he knows she's pretty enough, aside from the scar. She's wearing a the same overlarge gear as before, ripped and stained with soot and blood, and the leather pauldrons hang a little loose on her narrow, skinny shoulders. There's a hitch in her stride from some injury she's trying to ignore, exacerbated by the oversized staff she has hooked to her back, and she's far too pale. She doesn't look particularly heroic. Mostly, she looks nervous, and a bit overwhelmed by all of the attention trained on her.

And yet, when she passes him, he can understand the awed whispers of the villagers. Maybe it's because she's supposedly Andraste's Herald, though he doesn't particularly believe that either. Or maybe it's the force of personality that he knows is contained in her wiry body, or the strength of will to close the Rift as it killed her. Or maybe it's just because she saved his life.

Whatever it is, he finds himself straightening almost to attention when she passes, just like all the others. The movement must catch her attention, however, because she glances over and spots him, standing next to Varric in front of the half-unloaded supply wagon. Her strained expression melts into a little smile, and she gives a little wave, just a shy wiggle of fingers. Uncertain of her welcome, perhaps, after their last meeting.

Wanting to make up for that, a bit, and to thank her for his life the only real way he knows how, he salutes her, fist over heart, just as he would a knight returning from the battlefield. Only after the gesture does he realize that she may very well have been waving to Varric beside him- the dwarf fought by her side for the better part of a day, and Cullen is all too familiar with Varric's ability to make friends in the most unlikely of places- but before mortification can set in he's rewarded for the impulse when her shy wave gets a little bolder, and her tiny smile widens into a breathtaking grin. He recognizes it all too well: it's the same one she gave him on the battlefield, the moment after she killed the demon at his throat.

And then the moment breaks, and she turns and continues her trek to the Chantry doors. Cullen lets out a slow breath, interrupted into a huff when Varric bursts into laughter beside him.

Still shaking off the effects of that smile, he turns to give Varric a repressive look. Not that it does any good. "You find her funny?"

"Not even a little bit, Curly," Varric says, still chortling.

"Then why are you laughing?"

"It's just- Doesn't she remind you of someone?"

Cullen blinks at him, at a loss. "Not… that I can think of, no."

"Oh, come on. Black hair, blue eyes, big magic stick, crazy grin?" Varric waves his hands in front of his face, still with that insinuating smirk. "If she had a big red mark across her nose, would it feel a little more familiar?"

"You mean _Hawke?_ " Cullen looks doubtfully after Trevelyan's retreating back. "They're not that… similar," he says, but even to his own ears he sounds unsure.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Curly. Ohhh, Maker, she is going to be _trouble._ "

Cullen would chide the dwarf for disrespect if he thought it would do any good. Instead he settles for giving him a flat look. "You mean to say that a mage being lauded as the Herald of Andraste might cause some disturbance in the world order? I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You're a sarcastic bastard, Curly, I ever tell you that?" Varric says absently. "Besides, that's not what I'm talking about. Did you see that grin? End of the world, weird shit breaking out everywhere, funky magic shit on her hand, and she can still grin like that. I've only ever met one person with that reaction to near-death experiences, and let me tell you, life was not peaceful around her either."

Put like that, he can kind of see Varric's point. "Hawke was not a… quiet woman," he says. "I know nothing about Lady Trevelyan except that she closed the Breach. There is no way yet to tell if she will be the same."

"You'd better hope not," Varric advises. "Women like that make life interesting for everyone around them, sure, but there's interesting and then there's _interesting._ Seems to me like you lot have enough problems."

"Even Hawke can't be to blame for _that_ much chaos. According to your book, she was adjacent at best."

"That is what I wrote, yes," Varric says slowly, but shakes his head. "Still makes a body wonder." He turns and grabs another sack of grain, stretching up on his toes to pull it out of the wagon. "Let's just say that I wish you the very best of luck with that, Commander. And I hope that whatever trouble she gets you into? I'll be very, very far away."


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, they officially declare the Inquisition.

Work begins immediately. Of course, it wasn't as if mountains of work weren't drowning them _before_ that moment, but this adds a whole new dimension. Leliana and Josephine are busy writing notes and sending out endless ravens, till it seems like they've notified the entirety of south Thedas between the two of them. Cullen sends out a few feelers of his own, recruits he's had in mind for months but needed the official mandate to be able to contact, but the majority of his work is to start setting up units and arranging training rosters. He got a good start on some of it before the Breach opened, but he hasn't exactly had time for the last fortnight or so, with the Conclave in session, then destroyed, then a valley full of demons. And now they have a giant bloody hole in the sky, with a Herald supposedly sent to save them, and already they have more recruits coming in than he really has the structure to handle.

He meets Lady Trevelyan officially on the first day, when they meet to decide how to proceed, though only briefly. It's not really enough time for a good impression; he only notes that she seems overwhelmed but willing enough, and that she has a sly sense of humor when she's not under the threat of immediate execution. She also doesn't show any signs of anger and resentment when he says that he used to be a Templar, which is an encouraging sign from a former Circle mage, even allowing for her years of freedom from the Circle preceding the rebellion. She even smiles at him, before Leliana whisks her away for a more thorough investigation of her background. It's a good start.

After that, he doesn't really see her for two days or so, as she is alternately touring the camp with Cassandra and busy in the healing tents with Solas. At one point he hears her protesting, loudly, that she has no gift for the healing arts, but as can't be surprising for an organization comprised of a former Templar and two high-ranking Chantry women, they have precious few mages sworn yet to their banner. Those that _have_ joined are either researchers like Minaeve or elementalists like Sorris, leaving Solas as the closest thing they have to a true medic among their number. Lady Trevelyan's aptitudes aside, even a poor healer can do far more than mere poultices alone.

On the third day, however, she finally breaks free of the other members of their merry band of insurrectionists. While he's directing an early-morning practice session, he sees her sneaking out of town by one of the lower paths, dressed in borrowed leathers and her makeshift staff slung across her back. She spots him watching her furtive exit, and freezes guiltily.

He winks, and deliberately turns his back. He's a commander, not a jailor any longer, and it's not his place to dictate her movements. Besides, she carries no pack and wears only a threadbare sweater to guard against the chill autumn air. She isn't going far.

It's well into the afternoon when he sees her again, sauntering back up the main road with a goat's body slung across her shoulders and her belt pouch bulging with herbs. "Productive day, eh, Herald?" he calls out, her new title carefully considered for the listening ears of his overawed recruits. The honorific- and the teasing- is rewarded by a rude gesture. He chuckles, and turns back to drills. He'll not begrudge her some time to herself, especially if she's bringing supplies back in the bargain. Most of his recruits aren't half so useful.

On the fourth day, she comes to find him after breakfast. He sees her approaching out of the corner of his eye, but she stops just a little ways away from him, waiting politely for him to break off his conversation with his lieutenant. He wraps it up quickly, however, and turns away to greet her with a respectful nod. "Commander."

"Commander," she returns, with a hint of a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. "I didn't think that anyone here even knew my rank, the way everyone keeps calling me _Lady_ this and _Herald_ that."

"Lady Nightingale," he says, with a bit of a shrug. Her name needs no other explanation.

"Ah yes. Although I should tell you, for the sake of propriety, that I never quite finished my journeyman term. The rebellion broke out before I could finish my last year and apply for my mastery."

"If memory serves," Cullen says, "you earn the title when you're given a unit of your own, not when you get your mastery."

"Your memory serves very well," she says, and the faint smirk grows a little more pronounced. "Let's just say, if you'd like to use it, I wouldn't be opposed."

"I believe that can be arranged," he says, then shifts, feeling suddenly awkward for no reason he can figure. He clears his throat. "Was there something you needed?"

She arches a brow, likely at his abrupt and graceless change of subject. Well, he doesn't get more diplomatic than this, unfortunately. She'll either get used to it or she won't. "Only to give my thanks for yesterday."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he says, keeping his face very straight. "There would be nothing to thank me for if, for example, I didn't see you at all yesterday. Which is what I told Sister Leliana, when she came looking."

"Oh yes, I got an earful for that one," Lady Trevelyan- no, no "Lady", just Trevelyan- says, looking satisfied. "But, honestly, a well-supplied apothecary is better equipped to help the wounded than me, so I think I won that round."

"You should be proud," he tells her. "Few can say that about Leliana."

"I'll treasure it." She blinks for a moment, visibly casting about for a change of subject, then looks relieved as she nods to the muddied circle they've roped off as makeshift training grounds. "You have a good crew going here."

"We're just getting started." He crosses his arms over his chest and surveys the recruits, trying not to wince at the sorry sight of them. A few are good, but most… Well. "We've received a number of recruits, some locals from Haven, and even a couple pilgrims." He gives her a sideways smirk. "None made quite the entrance you did, however."

"At least I got everyone's attention," she jokes.

"That you did." He jerks his head towards the tents, and she falls in step easily next to him. He has to take a breath before he says the next bit, more than a little worried about her reaction, but- well, he has to say it at _some_ point. Might as well get it over with. "I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the mage uprising. I saw firsthand the devastation that it caused."

Before she can respond, one of his men comes up behind him. "Ser," Wilkes says, shoving a clipboard in his direction. Cullen takes it and scans the duty reports absently, keeping his attention warily on his companion out of the corner of his eye. He told her himself that he was a former Templar, and she didn't seem too upset then, but a former Templar and a former Templar from _Kirkwall_ are two completely different things, in the minds of most mages. She was a member of the rebellion, respected enough to be attending the Conclave, and he has no idea where she falls on the issue of his former profession.

When she doesn't react, he continues speaking, though he doesn't look up from the roster. "Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause."

"You were the Knight Commander in Kirkwall," she says mildly. "It took some time, but I remembered your name."

Of course. She's from the Ostwick circle, only a couple day's travel up the coast. Ostwick sent a contingent of Templars and mages both down to help restore order in Kirkwall once the rioting had died down, but he would bet good coin that she was not among their number. His memory is better than most now that he's clear of the lyrium, and he made sure to meet all of the mages, at least. He would remember that face.

"Knight Captain, actually. I was only the interim Commander after Meredith… was gone." He sneaks another glance her way, but she has a pleasant, neutral expression on her face, no anger that he can detect. A good liar? Or truly uncaring? It seems almost too much to expect. "Nevertheless, as I said, I left when I was approached by the Lady Seeker. This Inquisition was _intended_ to find a way to create a lasting peace between the warring factions, but now it seems that we face something far worse."

"I shan't argue," she says, smiling faintly. He takes it as a good sign. "The Conclave destroyed, a giant hole in the sky... things aren't looking good."

Definitely a sense of humor. "Which is why we're needed, now more than ever. The Chantry lost control of both Templars and mages, and now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains." Absently, he signs rosters and hands it off to a waiting runner, turning back to face Lady Trevelyan directly. "The Inquisition can act when the Chantry will not. Our followers would be part of that. There's so much that we can-"

Abruptly he realizes how he must sound, telling her things that she must know all too well. "Forgive me. I doubt you came here for a lecture."

"Well, I _came_ here to thank you for covering for me yesterday, but we've done that bit, so if you have one prepared, I'd love to hear it."

He chuckles, thinking nothing of it, other than perhaps a joke to let him know that he'll have no trouble from her for his former profession. "Another time, perhaps."

She gives him a teasing smile in return, and for a moment it almost looks like she's- Well, that she's responding in a way he finds… unlikely.

"I, uh." He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. What was he saying, again? "There's still a lot of work ahead of us."

Trevelyan opens her mouth to reply, but then Cullen hears the now all-too-familiar, "Ser!" as another of his men comes with yet another clipboard. "Ser Rylan has a report on our supply lines."

Maker, it took bloody long enough; Cullen's been waiting on that report for three days now. "Mm, as I was saying," he says to Trevelyan. If he's surprisingly regretful to break off the chat so soon, well, that's been him and the Maker. "If you'll excuse me?"

It's a polite nothing, but she doesn't fulfill her half of the farewell, just holds up one finger to hold his attention before he can turn away and says, "On one condition."

"Generally a risky phrase," he says cautiously.

She smiles. "Meet me for supper at the tavern later. I've spent so much time with the others; I'd love to bend your ear a bit, get a better scope of the Inquisition's forces. I'll buy you a drink, if a bribe is required."

It sounds as if she- But that would be ridiculous. "I don't think we've arranged to pay you, yet," he says awkwardly. "Technically the drinks should be on me."

Her smile gets bigger. "Even better. _If_ you have the time, that is."

"I-" _Stop being such a thickie,_ he tells himself. _She's just trying to figure out how things work around here. You'd be doing the same bloody thing in her shoes._ "I think I can make the time," he says, instead of the demurral he first intended. "Around dusk? I may be running late-"

"-then I'll save you a table," she says agreeably, looking pleased to have gotten her way. "Till this evening, Commander."

"Till then," he agrees, and then watches her walk away a moment, a little dazed. Is it his imagination, or is there an extra swing in her hips?

"Ser?" Evans says, hesitantly.

He gives a brisk shake of his head. _Getting soft in your dotage, old man,_ he says to himself wryly. _Keep your mind on the task at hand._ "Give me the report," he says, and turns his mind back to business once more.

**~*~**

He _is_ running late that evening, even later than he'd anticipated, and he hurries through town to get to the tavern, annoyed with himself for being so tardy and even more annoyed that he's so upset about it. He gets like this sometimes, despite his best efforts; it's as if his mind latches onto one small worry and hangs all of his larger concerns onto it. He knows full well that he's getting worked up over nothing. It's just a meal, perhaps a few drinks with a new comrade, nothing he hasn't done hundreds of times in his life, and no reason to be so worked up about it. _Besides, it isn't as if she-_

 _-could possibly be dining with someone else_ , he thinks dumbly, when he comes through the door and finds Varric perched on the bench next to her. _Right._

The thought enters his head that she forgot about their engagement, and he briefly considers turning and leaving. She seems to be having a good time with the dwarf, her head bent towards his with a laughing smile on her face, and he's loathe to put himself where he's unwanted. Perhaps it would be better were he to turn now, before she can see him, and if she _does_ happen to ask later, well, he can simply say he was busy with work, and it would be believable enough.

Just as quickly, though, he scolds himself for cowardice. His nervousness is playing tricks on him again, making the purely rude seem reasonable, and if he has some worries about this meeting, he shouldn't project it back onto her. He forces himself to step into the tavern and shut the door behind him, and once he's inside it's easier to wend his way through the tables to her side.

He's rewarded for ignoring his moment of weakness when she sees him coming and lights up with a smile far brighter than she was giving Varric, waving him over with an eagerness that cannot be feigned. "Commander!" she says, as he comes up to the table. "I'm glad you could make it. I'm guessing you know Varric Tethras. He tells me you share a hometown?"

"I'm a Ferelden by birth, but yes, we met a time or two in Kirkwall." He obeys her silent urging and takes a seat on the bench across from her, nodding to Varric. He has nothing of Lady Cassandra's grudge against the dwarf, who seems a good enough sort for a rogue, and as he said, they've a bit of shared history when it comes to Hawke. There are worse people to share a seat with. "Good to see you again. Been keeping yourself busy?"

"You know me, Curly, I'm always busy with something," Varric says, with his trademark devilish grin. "Come to rope me into more manual labor?"

"Just for supper, but I'll keep it as an option for next time," Cullen informs him. Varric holds up his hands.

"I'll just go, before you get any clever ideas," he says. He slaps the table and grins companionably at Trevelyan. "Thanks for the drink."

"Do this again sometime?" she asks. Varric chuckles.

"Wouldn't miss it," he promises her, and nods to Cullen, drains the last of his ale, and saunters away. Trevelyan turns back to him, a pleased smile on her face- and just a touch of nervousness, he's unfairly reassured to see.

"Sorry for the interruption, he was doing some writing when I came in and I figured I owed him a drink for having my back on the mountain before," she explains. "Food is on its way, I promise. I just told Flissa to wait till you came in; I wasn't sure how long work would keep you."

Longer than he should have let it, obviously. Still, it eases his mind a little to know that she didn't just forget their plans. Not that he has any claim to her time, particularly, just- Ah, sod it, he's been worrying over nothing, as usual. Nothing about the pleased, hopeful anticipation on her face seems anything but genuine, and she obviously wants this evening to go well as badly as he does.

Time to lay _aside_ his worries for the evening, he thinks.

"Too long, as you can see," he says, and lets himself smile at her. "How fared the rest of your day?"

She makes a face that can best be described as _resigned disgust,_ and takes a swig of her ale in lieu of answer. He grimaces in sympathy. "That bad?"

"No, I'm fine." She's lying. Badly. He arches an eyebrow. "I'd be better if people would just stop _staring_ at me," she admits.

"It's not going to happen, Commander," he says, not without sympathy. "Haven was a gathering-place for the faithful even before it became a home for the Inquisition. You're stuck with a group of true believers, I'm afraid."

She shakes her head. "You know, you're the only one who uses that title? Even Cassandra calls me 'Lady,' like she'd rather forget that I'm a mage."

"I admit I've been guilty of it myself," he says, spreading his hands in a shrug. Although he's been making an effort not to use it, either around the men or in his own thoughts. She made her preferences clear, and it's a small thing to respect that. "Though I don't think it's about your magic, necessarily, as opposed to trying to do honor to your birth. Even for someone like me, it's hard to call the so-called Herald of Andraste by some lesser rank."

"'Even for someone like you?' 'So-called?'" she quotes. "Does that mean that you're not one of the true believers?"

Despite her light, airy tone, he knows that this is a serious question for her, and one that deserves a serious reply. He rather suspects that she's going to find a way to ask it of everyone she works with. He would, in her shoes.

"I am Andrastian- I think you'll be hard-pressed to find even a former Templar who isn't- but if pressed I would say I believe that it doesn't matter," he says slowly, thinking through his answer. "Faith is a force to be reckoned with. We are, whatever the problem at hand, assembling an army of the faithful. Even were you a quarrelsome sort, you'd be a useful tool in the Inquisition's arsenal. As it is, a trained mage who has seen service outside of her tower will be a tremendous asset." Realizing how cold that speech must have sounded, he tries out an awkward smile. "Especially one who's willing to break bread with even a former Templar."

She doesn't smile back, but she doesn't seem angry, either. Speaking truthfully, she mostly just looks… lost.

"You actually think I'll be useful?" she says, and for the first time he hears the uncertainty there. "I'm not… really used to this sort of thing, to be honest. Stick me on the battlefield and I'll lead the charge, but I'm really only good at hitting things. Or setting them on fire. This whole 'army of the faithful' thing is a little… out of my depth." She grimaces. "Or a lot."

His heart squeezes with sympathy. He hasn't really thought about what it must be like for her, suddenly thrust into the center of a movement that promises to shake the foundations of Thedas, to say nothing of the doom that threatens them all. It must be tremendously disconcerting for her, not to mention disheartening.

"I don't know much of your life before you joined us," he says deliberately, "but from our short acquaintance, I would say that you'd be a great asset even if you weren't _also_ the only person who can seal the great bloody holes in reality that are popping up everywhere."

_That_ wins a smile from her, thank the Maker, and she props her cheek on her fist. "I'll take that as the highest of compliments," she teases, and at last he can feel the mood shift back towards the easy congeniality she'd shared with Varric before his arrival. " _Especially_ from a former Templar."

He claps his hand over his heart; struck. Her playful smile is heartening- and infectious. "I don't give them lightly. You can ask any of my men."

"I doubt they'd argue with you!" She sobers. "But in all seriousness, Commander, I'm pleased you're so willing to work with me. I know that having your Inquisition suddenly center around an apostate must be something of a sore spot for you."

"Technically all mages are apostates now, as Solas likes to keep reminding everyone," he says lightly. She nods a little, accepting this, but he knows that she deserves more from him. He can't speak of Kinloch, nor even yet of Kirkwall to those who were not there, but…

"If you had asked me that question even a few years ago, my answer would have been very different," he admits. "But the Inquisition, as it was originally formed, was designed to find a way to create peace, to find a _new_ path that would have a place for Templars and mages alike. I would not have joined if I didn't believe in that goal. On that front, you will have no trouble from me."

"I can work with that," she says. Her smile gets wider, and for the first time he notices that she has a new scar on the bridge of her nose, where he faintly remembers seeing a scratch that first day on the battlefield. It's surprisingly sweet. "Look at us. Mages and Templars, coming together. Could all our problems be so easily solved as a conversation over supper?"

"I doubt it, especially considered I haven't had any yet," Cullen returns. And then, with timing that he could not have made up if he tried, Flissa appears at their table, bearing two plates filled with good, hearty stew and fresh-baked bread. She also brings him a mug of ale, bless and keep her.

"Good?" Trevelyan asks. He takes a draught of ale, sighs with pleasure, and picks up his spoon.

"Sweet Andraste, you don't know how much I needed this."

"I've _some_ idea," she says agreeably, and tucks in.

Neither of them speak much during their meal, both too famished for the kind of desultory conversation that is expected in polite company, but Trevelyan doesn't seem to have any interest in those kind of manners, thank the Maker. For a woman of noble birth, she seems refreshingly uninterested in any of the trappings of her rank.

After they both clean their plates, however, their conversation resumes, and Cullen finds it far easier than he would have thought. Perhaps it's the good food and better ale, or the warmth of the tavern fire roaring in the hearth a few feet away; or perhaps it's just her easy, welcoming manner, but he finds that by the time that Flissa takes their plates his earlier stress is gone, and he stays there far later than he originally intended, nursing his drink and just talking. She does have some questions about the command structure and state of the Inquisition forces, as promised, which he readily answers to the best of his ability, but they soon wander to other topics, and he finds he doesn't mind a bit.

They discuss the obvious topic of their experiences with their respective Circles- she went to hers when she first displayed magic at the age of eight, whereas he didn't start training till the age of thirteen, and wasn't assigned to a Circle until he was nearly eighteen- with surprisingly little friction over their opposite sides of the vow, and he finally gets to satisfy some of his curiosity about what mages were actually bloody _doing_ all the time while he was standing around staring at walls. She, too, has some questions about what a Templar's life was like, and teases him mercilessly about Templar _vows_ until he's quite red in the face and begging to change the subject. She takes pity on him and instead draws out a few tales, carefully sanitized, of his years in Kirkwall, and in return she tells him of some likely equally-sanitized stories of her years in service.

Despite the courtesy of rank given to Knight-Enchanters, she never led a full company, that privilege being reserved for a man of higher birth than a mage-born second child of a minor noble, but instead had charge of a pair of platoons, scouts and chevaliers both. She also, as she admits a couple pints in, frequently served as the front-line command while her Lord Commander directed from the safety of the rear camp, though she's quick to reassure him that it wasn't cowardice on the part of the Lord Commander. "Brilliant tactical mind, had Comte Dunford. Bit of a tit, too, and he didn't think much of me when I started, but he liked people who proved themselves." Her flash of a grin is unexpectedly fierce. "And I _always_ proved myself."

"I don't doubt it," he says, and she laughs.

"I was lucky that I was back in Ostwick, fulfilling my mandatory attendance at the Trevelyan Firstday Ball, when independence was officially declared," she says with a sigh, her easy smile turning melancholy. "And that Master William was at the conference, I suppose. There were never many of us in service, but as far as I know, the two of us were the the only ones in the Free Marches that made it out alive. After Kirkwall, I don't think anyone wanted to take any chances with a mage that actually had combat experience."

"No, I imagine not," he says wryly. Neither of them speak of what likely happened to her comrades who did not escape to join the rebels. "And the command experience would be even more valuable. You know, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm doubly surprised that Grand Enchanter Fiona had you attending the Conclave instead of marshalling her troops. Were you also trained for diplomacy?"

" _Maker,_ no, I'm terrible." She makes a face. "I… also did not get along very well with Fiona, let's just say. She would not have had me as a general even if I'd been willing to serve under her."

There's a story there, but it's not one he's likely to get today, so he just stays quiet and lets her continue. "No, I was there for my own reasons. Master William was there as a speaker. Trying to find some middle ground, if there was any to be had. I was attending to him. He's getting up there in years, and-" She stops. Looks down at her mug. " _Was_ getting up there in years," she corrects softly. "He died with all the rest, I suppose."

Moments like this never get any easier, he knows. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's a small thing, compared to what others have lost," she says. "He lived a very full life."

"Still."

"Still." She gives a little shake of her head, sending the fringe of her forelock sliding across her eyes. She pushes it back behind her ears with an impatient gesture. "Ah, look at me. Usually I can be counted on to joke right down to my deathbed. At least, that's what my mother always said. Usually in tones of great exasperation."

"Well, these aren't exactly normal circumstances," Cullen says. "I promise not to judge you."

"That's a relief. This was hardly the sparkling wit I hoped to impress you with."

He doesn't think he can be blamed for his answering smile, charming as hers is, but the way he crosses his arms on the table and leans forward is entirely his fault. "I'm certainly impressed."

It's not his imagination that she mirrors him, he's sure of it. And one corner of her mouth tucks upwards in a smile that can only be described as _insinuating._

"I'm not sure you seem impressed enough, Commander. Perhaps I'll have to try harder."

This time the flirt in her voice in undeniable. He chuckles and looks away, his cheeks burning a little. Maker, he's never known how to do this, the friendly dance of innuendo between two soldiers. He's felt more comfortable with her than most, pleased to find such likeness between the two of them despite their very different backgrounds, but still... The awkwardness was bound to get the better of him sooner rather than later. He is… unfortunately rather more serious in his affections, generally, and tends to be terrible at flirtation for the sake it.

"It's… getting late, I suspect," he says, more to the tabletop than to her. "I should seek my bed soon." He clears his throat. Did that sound like an invitation? Maker, what if she thinks it was an invitation? "All my mornings are early ones, these days."

When he looks up, she's got an easy smile on her face, but she's also leaning back on the bench, her posture relaxed, not so intent as before. "I can't argue with that, Commander."

"Cullen, please. I hear enough of my title as it is." The formality that feels so simple between him and Cassandra seems forced with her. "And you aren't, technically, a member of the Inquisition yet. It would be... inappropriate."

"Oh yes, a fate I try to avoid at all costs," she says, with a laugh that makes a lie from her words. "Very well then, _Cullen_ it shall be, but only if you agree to call me Evelyn." She laughs all the harder at the surprised look that crosses his face. "It _is_ my name, you know. Or had you forgotten?"

"A little," he admits. Or not… forgotten, exactly, but more never considered her given name as it might relate to him. Why would he have permission to use it? Except, of course, that he does, now. "Everyone is very… formal, around you."

"Except Varric."

How could he forget? "Except Varric."

"And you."

"I shall try," he says dryly. He drains the last of his ale and sets the mug back down, reluctantly. "I truly should seek my bed. Rest is in short supply these days."

"You'll certainly get no argument from me." She finishes her own drink and sets it aside, standing with a long, spine-arching stretch that causes him to hastily avert his eyes. "Sleep well, Cullen. I'm sure I'll see you on the morrow."

"Maker keep you," he replies, and gets a particularly sweet smile before she turns and leaves. Because he occasionally has some sense of self-preservation, he doesn't watch her go.

**~*~**

He does see her the next day, though only from a distance, as she spends most of it in the smithy, working with Harritt to replace her lost staff. She certainly did well enough with just the makeshift one she had on the battlefield, some simple quarterstaff repurposed to somewhat more arcane ends, but he spent enough years around mages to know that something like that wouldn't be able to withstand extended use. She certainly seems to know what she's doing; Harritt doesn't go so far as to allow her actual use of his tools, but he seems to be working from her fairly exacting demands, and she spends the day posted up in the airiest corner of the smithy, working on something small and fiddly under the assistant's watchful eye.

She's still there by the time Cullen has to quit the field for the evening, and he certainly doesn't want to interrupt her work. Still, he lingers on the path near the smithy for a moment, hoping to catch her eye- and is rewarded for his uncharacteristic dawdling when she happens to look up, a smile spreading across her face when she spots him.

"Come in!" she mouths, indicating the door with a jerk of her chin, and despite the fact that Josephine is almost certainly waiting for him, he finds himself obeying.

_Surely two minutes won't hurt,_ he reasons, nodding a greeting to Harritt as he picks his way around the workbenches to reach Evelyn's workstation. _Lady Montilyet wouldn't begrudge me a quick hello to the Herald._

"I saw you working out there all day," she says, when he gets there. "Half the recruits were ready to drop dead by the time you were just getting warmed up. Don't you ever slow down?"

_She was watching him?_ "It's just practice, and discipline," he says. "If they'd taken their vows under Knight-Commander Greagoir, they'd find a good sight more stamina, too. I'm too soft on them."

"You? Never."

He clears his throat against her infectious smile and nods to the piece of wire in her hands. "You seemed absorbed in your work, yourself."

"Why, I didn't know you were paying attention," she smirks. When he stutters some sort of denial, she just laughs and holds up the completed section for his inspection. "For my staff. I'm not much of a crafter, but I have picked up a few tricks along the way. Harritt's putting a mace head on the top where the focus crystal usually goes, so this helps gather mana."

He dutifully admires the work, which is actually quite intricate, and rather pretty for all that it's just copper wire and bits of scrap iron. "A neat trick."

"Isn't it? I've been thinking about getting out of town for a few days, rounding up any worthy shots with idle hands and organizing a good hunt up the mountain. I wanted to make sure I had my gear in good shape first, though. I'd put my magic against most beasties, but with the rifts about, it pays to be cautious."

He grasps quickly at the important part of that speech. "You're leaving?"

"Well, just for a bit," she says defensively. She ducks her head under his steady gaze and begins what is obviously a rehearsed speech. "Look, I know that I'm the Herald and that's really important to everyone, truly, I do. But I'm not good at being idle and I'm _definitely_ not good at having a whole bunch of people staring at me everywhere I go. I got enough of that whenever I went home, thank you. Leliana says it'll be a few days before she can make contact with her Chantry friend, and Haven could definitely use some more fresh meat and furs. It's going to be a long, cold winter."

"Evelyn," he says, when she pauses to take a breath. The sound of her name on his lips cuts her off, and she looks at him a bit warily, but he only smiles down at her. "It's fine. I'm not judging."

"I sound a bit defensive, don't I?" she says ruefully. "Sorry. It feels a bit selfish, taking off up the mountain like that. But I'm not really doing much good here, and I like to be useful. I'm not good at sitting around."

"Maker knows I can't say aught against that without sounding like a hypocrite," Cullen laughs. "Truly, I think it's a good idea. And you can tell Sister Leliana I said so when she protests."

"You're a good egg."

"I've heard worse," he says dryly. He nods to her work. "I'll leave you to it. Good luck on the mountain. Try to bring me back something interesting."

She cocks her head. "Why, serrah, that sounds like a challenge."

"Mayhaps." He salutes, a smirk on his lips, and sketches a quick bow. "Good hunting."

"Try not to get into too much trouble without me," she shoots back, and he decides to leave rather than try for the last word. He hasn't known her for long, but he can already tell that that quest will never bear fruit.

**~*~**

True to her word, she rapidly rounds up a decent-sized hunting party in record time and is gone mere hours after breakfast the next day. She takes Varric, presumably to get him out of town and away from the black cloud of Cassandra's resentment as much as anything, and two of Leliana's off-duty scouts as well as three of his soldiers. She spends three nights up the mountain, and brings her party back down on the afternoon of the fourth day, their pack horse towing a makeshift sled laden with meat and furs, all of their packs overflowing with greenery. The lot of them are laughing and joking, and Evelyn has the easiest smile he's yet seen on her face.

Cassandra just about tore a strip from his hide for authorizing the trip, deeply unhappy about having the Herald gone from the camp in case she might be needed, but if he had any doubts, in that moment he knows he did the right thing. Cassandra underestimates the impact of morale on a soldier's mind, and already he can see how Evelyn's little band will spread stories of her through the camp, will make jokes and tell tall tales and generally endear their new Herald to the men faster than any rumor Leliana could have manufactured. As well, the supplies are desperately needed, and full bellies, warm beds, and healing wounds will make an army march well past any other breaking point.

But he also knows that it was the right choice for _her._ Their friendship might be new and rough-edged, but even aside from that, he knows that she deserves whatever comforts she can hoard. It's the least they can do for her.

He finds her in the tavern that night, sharing a bottle of ale with her erstwhile hunting partner. "Commander, come join us for a pint," Varric says boisterously, slapping the bench next to him enthusiastically. "Trevelyan here is trying to claim that I made something up, and you're just the man to set her straight."

"He lies," Cullen says immediately. Their good mood is infectious, and he's all too familiar with Varric's habit of, shall we say, _exaggeration_. "My lady, he lies like he breathes."

Evelyn arches an eyebrow at the use of her title, but Varric draws her attention back to him and his playacting with his hand pressed to his chest, all mock affront. "Hey now, Curly, there's no need for that sort of slander."

"Hah!" Evelyn slaps the table triumphantly and grins at Varric. "I knew he'd take my side. Your story was just too implausible."

"It was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," Varric says hotly. "Is it my fault that reality around Hawke sometimes has a convenient narrative structure? No it is not."

"There's narrative structure and then there's the _ridiculous,_ " she says. "You just thought the climax of your story wasn't dramatic enough, so you wanted to invent another villain."

Cullen starts to get a bad feeling about this. _Tale of the Champion_ has always been a hotly debated subject, in the Inquisition even more so than in Kirkwall, if possible. He's all too familiar with the "extra villain" that she likely means, but vainly, hopes that he's wrong. "What, exactly, was Varric supposedly exaggerating about?"

Evelyn tips her head backwards to meet his gaze, standing behind her, and even with the sinking feeling in his stomach, he's not immune to the charm of her smile. "The end of _Tale of the Champion,_ of course," she says. "As if the personal duel with the Arishok wasn't bad enough-"

"That happened!"

"-he had First Enchanter Orsino turn himself into a slavering death abomination, just so Hawke would have someone else to fight."

Cullen feels his sinking heart hit the good mood from Evelyn's infectious smile and burst it into nothing. He can't even feel surprise. Of _course_ he walked up just as they were talking about one of the worst nights of his life. _Of course_ he did.

"Ah…" he says, and Evelyn's easy smile slowly fades.

"Maker, don't tell me."

He shrugs awkwardly. He hates to ruin her mood as well as his own, but since she _asked…_ "I wasn't there to see it myself, of course, we didn't arrive until-" Ah yes, yet another part of the story that doesn't paint him in the best light, marvelous. "-later, but I did have to clean up the… remains. After."

Cullen's gaze is locked to Evelyn's face, gone still with shock and unhappiness, but he hears Varric makes a soft noise of sympathy. "I didn't know that. It must have been… something."

"It was."

Evelyn shakes her head. She's a little flushed from drink already, the warm blush highlighting the thin pale line of scar tissue across her cheek. "You're telling me true?" She looks from him to Varric and back, confused and displeased. "But I _knew_ First Enchanter Orsino. Not well, but he visited the Ostwick circle more than once before he was confirmed, doing research in our libraries. He always struck me as a serious, dedicated sort."

"Neither of those things, unfortunately, precludes the use of blood magic," Cullen says quietly. "Especially in Kirkwall."

"Then Varric wasn't actually making it up?" Evelyn asks. She seems truly distressed, more so than would be warranted by merely being proven wrong about her joking accusation of Varric's exaggeration. "But that means… Was the rest of it true, too? Was he the one backing Quentin's research? The man who killed the Champion's mother?"

Varric looks down at the table, and Cullen wishes fervently for a drink, or to be elsewhere, or both. This is a private pain, for all Varric spilled it into ink for the world to see, and Cullen has his own nightmares to contend with. He doesn't need to take on anyone else's, as well.

"Yeah," Varric finally says. "Yeah, that was him."

Evelyn's usually mobile face goes still with anger. "Then he was truly a monster," she says flatly. "Everyone said that it was just Templar propaganda-" She winces guiltily and glances back up at him. "Sorry, Cullen."

He clears his throat. "That would have been true often enough, under Knight Commander Meredith's command," he says diplomatically. It has the advantage of being truth. He will probably never know just how many mages became Tranquil under his watch, for example, that did nothing but try to flee abuse. His blindness will likely haunt him for the rest of his life. "I won't take offense just because this one happened to be fact."

"Fact, that the First Enchanter of Kirkwall- the man that became the rallying cry for the entire bloody rebellion- was a blood mage. And not just any blood mage, but a man who turned himself into some monstrous demonic beast out of _fear._ " She shakes her head, her hair falling into eyes, only to be pushed impatiently back a moment later. "You'll have to forgive me, gentlemen, if the irony burns a bit doing down."

She was a member of that rebellion, not so very long ago, Cullen thinks. She hasn't spoken of wanting to rejoin them, to his knowledge at least, but regardless of her loyalties to the movement, her life must have been changed forever by that night, as surely as his own if somewhat more delayed. Her distress over Orsino's fate makes more sense now.

Varric clears his throat. "Well, at least we established that I'm not lying," he says, forcibly cheerful. Cullen doesn't know him very well, but it seems very like him, to try to draw the conversation back to the lighter side when he can. "Thanks for that, Curly."

Evelyn looks up at him and tries out a small smile. "I'm sorry for dragging you into such a dark topic," she says softly.

Oddly, he feels better for her saying it. It's not as if he generally shies away from darker topics as necessary, but he prefers her clever banter more, and not just because he finds he greatly dislikes the stressed, pale upset that draws tight at the corners of her mouth. She has a face made for smiles, not sadness. "Maker knows I've had worse," he sighs, following Varric's lead and trying to keep his tone deliberately light.

She shakes her head, faux-exasperated. It's a little strained around the edges, but growing easier, as she visibly sets aside her upset in favor of verbal play. "Yes, because that's exactly what a girl wants to hear." When he splutters, her little smile grows wider. "Perhaps I should start over. 'Hello, Cullen.'"

He smiles back, foolish and warm. "Hello, Evelyn."

"Why don't you take a seat and tell me how you spent your days since I saw you last?"

"And that's my cue to get us some more ale," Varric says, standing and waving Cullen towards the bench. "I might fall asleep if I have to hear about duty rosters, and I think Flissa's warming up to me."

"I wouldn't get your hopes up," Cullen advises. "Half the town's in love with her."

Varric grins. "Won't have to worry about that in my case. But a little flirtation never harmed anyone, did it?" he says, and makes for the bar. Cullen swings his leg over the bench and settles into his abandoned seat.

"I wouldn't bet against him," he confides to Evelyn. "Even Cassandra likes him."

"Seriously?"

"She hides it deep-down." He cocks his head, considers. " _Very_ deep down."

She chuckles. "He is certainly a unique character," she says, then stretches out a foot to knock the toe of her boot against his. "But you were going to tell me about your week. Productive, I hope?"

"Very, though in ways that I'm sure would bore Varric," he says. "We've still recruits streaming in, and it's been a juggling act, finding spaces for them and getting them assigned to training units. And the training itself- Maker, don't even get me started. Surely I wasn't so hopeless when I was that age?" he appeals to her.

"I think _everyone_ is hopeless as a lass or lad," she says with a laugh. "It's probably Maker's mercy that keeps us from remembering how awful we were when we were young and thought we knew everything."

"Probably because embarrassment would keep us from ever leaving the house, if we did."

She visibly perks up. "I sense a story there."

"Likely many, none of which you will _ever_ hear," he promises her.

"Ah, you're no fun."

"That's certainly what my recruits would say."

"Yes, but what do they know?" She grins at him over the rim of her tankard. "As long as you're not working yourself too hard."

"Oh, Maker, not you too," he groans. "It's all I've been hearing from Leliana for weeks. 'Take a _break,_ Commander,' 'Have you _eaten_ today, Commander?' 'When do you _sleep,_ Commander?' It's enough to drive a man mad."

"Oh yes, concern from your friends is terrible," she says, dry as the desert. "Well, I won't add to the chorus, then. But beware- if _I_ think you're running yourself too hard, I'll just slip you with a sleeping draught."

"You're a hard woman," he says admiringly. Her returning smile has an edge that makes him want to lean forward.

"And don't you forget it."

Three mugs of ale slap down on the table between them, causing them both to jump. "Are we talking about the good Lady Herald's flaws?" Varric inquires, hopping up onto a stool at the end of the table. "It's my new favorite subject."

"Pest," Evelyn says affectionately. "Did you order us some food, at least?"

"Flissa says it'll be out directly." Varric smiles toothily. "She likes me."

"Of course she does," Cullen sighs, and snags one of the tankards for himself. Maker, that tastes good. Nothing quite like good Fereldan ale.

"There ya go, Curly, drink up. It'll put hair on your chest."

"I'm sure his chest is fine," Evelyn says, amused. Cullen buries his blush in another draught of his ale, but when he sets down the tankard, Varric is eyeing him with a knowing look he doesn't like much at all.

"So hunting went well?" he asks, to head whatever _that_ is off at the pass.

" _Quite_ well," Evelyn says. "I think we've stocked up for a few weeks, at least."

"If you like eating goat, anyway," Varric says. "Me, I'll take nug any day."

"Maker, don't let Leliana hear you say that." Another quick draught of his ale, and Cullen has the courage to ask something that's been running through his mind for days now. "All right, I have to ask," he says. "I know Varric uses a crossbow, but when you're hunting, do you…" He trails off, blushing a little as both of them stare at him expectantly. "Er."

Evelyn smirks and leans her cheek on her fist. "I'm not sure, Commander, perhaps you could elaborate."

_Pest,_ he thinks, and makes a vague gesture with his fingers. "Well, I've only ever seen you hit things with a fireball, so…"

"I didn't think you'd actually be able to bring yourself to ask," she admits with a snort. "But no, I don't use fire magic when I'm hunting. For one thing, we're trying to save the furs to use later, and for another, we're in the middle of a forest, which is usually not a safe place for even magical flame."

"So what do you use?" he says. "Assuming you're not just letting Varric do all the real work."

"Oooh, now you're in for it, Curly," Varric says, but if anything, she just looks even more pleased with his banter, her lips curling up into a little smile around the rim of her mug.

"Battle magic isn't all just fire and brimstone, you know. I know I tend to favor fire spells-"

"Do you ever," mutters Varric.

"Hush, you. It's all just energy, though. Fire's good when you want to scare the shit out of your enemies, but a simple energy bolt will do just as well."

Cullen narrows his eyes. "I served with the Circle for over a decade, you realize."

"Your point?"

"Do you know how many 'simple energy bolts' I've seen go astray? I mean, if you're trying to _avoid_ a forest fire…"

"I think I might actually be offended," she says, eyes wide with mock affront. "Are you saying I'm little better than a raw apprentice? No training, no control?"

He holds his hands up in a conciliatory manner. "All I'm saying is, it's a good thing you got a new staff. Good aim is crucial."

"Yeah, Her Worship is pretty good with a staff," Varric says with a crude smile, and then snickers at his own joke. Evelyn gives him a flat look, but he doesn't seem deterred, just grins and keeps going. "I mean, you have to take _good care_ of yours. Lots of polishing…"

Cullen shifts warningly- teasing is one thing, but there is a line!- but Evelyn just sneers. "Oh yes, because no one's _ever_ made that joke before. Come up with some original material, Varric. You're an author, for Maker's sake, stop shaming yourself."

"You're such a fuckin' critic," Varric says woefully. "What about you, Curly? Do Templars make any good staff jokes?"

Cullen clears his throat. "Can we talk about something else, please?" he nearly begs. Apparently Evelyn doesn't care much over the jokes, but _he_ feels awkward, even if she does not. "Anything else?"

Evelyn chuckles and takes pity on him. "It's just as well we've got things stocked up, because when I debriefed with Leliana earlier, she told me that her scouts finally got through to her Chantry friend, and they need aid as soon as we can provide it." she says. "Apparently it's even more of a mess than we heard before. We're going to have to clear out some of the enemy camps before we can even reach the town, I think. They've been caught in the crossfire for weeks."

So she's only back for the night, it seems. It's a shame, as he was looking forward to another evening or two like this one, but of course duty takes precedence.

"That's a bad place to be," he says. He will simply have to buy her a drink when she gets back. "I wish you luck out there."

"We don't need luck, do we, Trevelyan?" Varric says, taking a messy draught from his mug. "We've got pure skill and cunning."

"Speak for yourself, I'll take all the luck I can get," she shoots back.

"Superstitious soldier."

"Card shark."

Varric clutches his chest. "You wound me, my lady."

"Not yours and not a lady, my dear, but keep dreaming when you polish your crossbow at night," she says, and snorts before shooting an apologetic glance at Cullen, clearing her throat a little awkwardly. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he says. The laughter's tickling at the back of his throat, but he knows that the blush will beat it to the surface, curse his pale complexion. Maker knows he's heard far cruder, from the lads and lasses in the barracks, but something about her smooth, educated tones saying such things makes him squirm. "So you're moving out tomorrow?"

"Me, Varric, Solas, the good Lady Seeker, and about two squads of soldiers," she confirms. "They've got a forward camp set up already, thank the Maker, but it's going to be a messy business."

"You're looking forward to it," he accuses. She's doing her best to hide a grin, but she's near to bouncing in her seat.

"Maker, you don't even know. This is the sort of thing I was trained for. It's what I'm good at. And like I told you- I like being useful."

He can understand _that_ well enough. Trained as a Knight-Enchanter, her purpose was not unlike his own, when he joined the Templars: to bare his blade to the wicked, to extend his shield over the weak. By the time Cassandra approached him in Kirkwall, he was so lost, so far from where he started, that he leapt at the chance to fulfill the Maker's purpose for him once more. And for all that he took a position as the Commander, rather than a soldier on the front line, he was eager enough to draw his sword once more, down in the valley.

"Then here's to using our Maker-given talents," he says, and lifts his mug. "Violently."

"Hear, hear," Varric says, and they clash tankards, only barely avoiding spilling any of the ale. "You know, Trevelyan, if you're interested in a little wager…"

Cullen groans and puts his hands over his ears. "I can't hear about this," he says. "You know gambling is officially forbidden in Haven. We're fifty bloody paces from the _Chantry,_ you heathen."

"Ten says I get more kills than you," Evelyn says, earning a betrayed look from him.

Varric narrows his eyes. "Assists count?"

"Half points."

"You're on."

"I didn't hear that," he says loudly. "I'm sure all I heard was you two wishing each other good luck on the morrow."

"Yeah, a lucky ten royals," Varric says, _sotte voce,_ but he has an angelic smile ready when Cullen looks over at him. "May the best dwarf win, Trevelyan."

"May the best mage win, Tethras," she says, and they share a pair of dangerous-looking smiles.

_Sweet Andraste, this is your Herald?_ Cullen found himself thinking, somewhat blasphemously. _We're all doomed._

But he's smiling when he takes another swig of his ale.

**~*~**

She leaves the next morning, as promised, and Cullen waves their party off from the training yard. He's a little sorry to see her go, of course, but it is, after all, why she's here, so he thinks nothing more of it until later that evening, when he finds himself back in his quarters well past the hour he should be abed. He's tired enough, as he sheds his armor and clambers under the furs, that he almost hits his head on the thing before he spots it on his pillow.

It's a perfect square of fool's gold, still stuck in the chunk of rock she must have pried loose from the mountainside. He runs his fingers over the surface of it, but can find no chip or scrape that would indicate she had shaped it herself. Perfectly formed in a cube, then, by the Maker's hand himself. He stares at it in wonder, and only belatedly notices a note underneath it.

_You said you wanted me to bring back something interesting,_ it says, in a slanted, elegant writing that speaks of hours of penmanship lessons in a noble house. _I always like to live up to a challenge. Hope you like._

He sits there, on the edge of his bed, just holding the stone in his hand for quite a time. That she's done this- considered his quickly-forgotten comment, found this singular thing, brought it back here to Haven, and found time to sneak it into his quarters at some point this morning while she had a hundred other things to see to- well, it brings a foolish smile to his face. He can't remember the last time someone did something like this for him. Perhaps not since he was a child. Perhaps not ever.

He carefully stores it in the drawer of his nightstand, and curls up under the furs, staring up into the dark for a long time. He'll have to do something to return the favor. He's not sure what, but he'll have to think of something. He has time, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

They get back from the Hinterlands two weeks later, filthy but cheerful. Cullen is the first to see them coming up the road, since he's waiting for the supply caravan they're escorting, and for a moment he doesn't recognize the woman astride the bay charger in the lead. The horse is too big for her, damn near seventeen hands and wide through the shoulder and haunches, but she's sitting easy astride, one hand lazy on the reins, guiding with her knees the way cavalry officers do. There's a stitched leather helm falling low over her brow, obscuring her face, but then she shifts and he sees the long dark shape of the staff bound behind her saddle, and he realizes with a start that it's the Herald.

(Even he has fallen in the habit of calling her that, in the week of her absence. He's not proud. And it's not as if he truly thinks that she's the Herald of Andraste, but it's hard to resist the tide of public opinion. Even Leliana refers to her thus.)

"Ho, there, Haven!" she calls out, and nudges the charger into a trot. Cullen stands fast and waits for her to get to him, her mount walking right up to him and shoving its nose against his chest, snorting at the smell of armor. She pulls her helm off and hooks it onto the pommel, shaking her short cap of fine black hair out of her eyes. "It's good to see you, Cullen."

"A fine day to you as well," he replies. She grins at him. "You look like you had a successful trip."

" _Very_ successful," she says, and swings out of the saddle. She staggers slightly when she lands on the ground, and has to steady herself against the horse's shoulder briefly before she's able to straighten. "Ugh."

"Are you all right?" Now that she's closer, he can see that she looks rather pale under the smudges of travel dirt.

"I'm fine, just a long ride."

"Don't listen to her," Varric commands, as he and Solas ride up. Both of them are on the shaggy, sturdy mountain ponies that they breed around these parts, a little too big for Varric, a little too small for Solas. "She took a templar blade across her ribs and then kept going for three more days hunting down a wolf pack."

Evelyn glares over her shoulder at the dwarf, betrayed. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's rude to tell a lady's secrets, Tethras?"

"You keep tellin' me you're not a lady, Trevelyan."

As charming as this exchange is, Cullen ignores it in favor of looking over to Solas. The elf is the closest thing they have to a true healer among them, and also the most likely, after Cassandra, to tell the truth.

"She's well enough, just overtired," Solas informs him calmly, a small hint of a smile twitching at the veriest corner of his mouth at their byplay. "A hearty meal and a hot bath will work more wonders than my magic ever could."

"Oh, sweet Maker, a _bath,_ " she moans. "Cullen, I've not had a proper bath in a week. I've been washing in mountain streams. Do you know how cold mountain streams are?"

"Cold as snowmelt, I imagine," he says, trying to suppress a smile. Despite her age and station, in that moment she sounds like nothing so much as an overeager child. "Go on up into camp. The cooks have a stew going and I don't think anyone would fight the Herald of Andraste for a turn in the bathing room. Water's still cold, though."

"Oh, I can take care of that," she says, wiggling her fingers. A little puff of smoke flashes up from her index finger. "I just can't handle running water."

"Truly, magic exists to serve man," Cullen says dryly.

"Hey, I know my history as well as the next Circle mage. Before the Circle towers, mages were used to light the candles in the Chantry prayer rooms. I'm just following a long line of religious tradition, if you look at it that way."

"Ah, I stand corrected." It's a little disconcerting for him to see someone use magic so casually, but it's also rather nice, too. He's never been around anyone so comfortable with their own magical gifts, it not being something that was encouraged in the Circle, but she clearly takes such pleasure in it that it's hard to see anything fearsome here. "If it's hot baths you're after, you should check with the others, as well."

"Good idea." She purses her lips and blows a short, sharp whistle that has the Lady Seeker reining her black courser away from her discussion with the caravan leader and riding over to join them. "Hey, Cassandra, there's a hot bath in our future if you don't turn up your nose at a little shortcut for hot water." She does the finger-wiggle-smoke trick again, but Cassandra is clearly used to her antics by now, as she just shakes her head and dismounts.

"I do believe I would wound you if you did not," she admits. "Commander, are you willing to take care of unloading the caravan?"

"Certainly, Seeker," he says. "Go on, all of you. I'll take your report in the Chantry after supper."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Varric says. "Hey, Trevelyan, think you can do the trick for ours?"

"The _men's_ bathing-house? What a blush you bring to my cheek, my lad."

"I think you're just afraid the sight of my naked chest will ruin you for any others," Varric says.

"If that was going to happen it would've already, since you can't be bothered to cover it up in the first place," she returns, and then they make for the stables, squabbling all the way. Cullen ducks his chin to hide a smile, and turns back to his work.

**~*~**

Any pleasure he feels at having the Herald and her squad back safely within Haven's gates is spoiled when, hours later, tensions between his ex-Templars and some of the few apostates to join their cause escalate almost to blows in front of the Chantry. Cullen always knew that there were going to be conflicts eventually, but after weeks had passed and none had yet erupted he'd grown cautiously hopeful. A foolish mistake, as it happens.

He isn't there for the start of the fight. He's in the war room, going over some of the written reports from Leliana's scouts and his soldiers, making plans for allocation of their resources to help stabilize the Hinterlands, when Wilkes comes sprinting in with nary a knock. Cullen's initial annoyance disappears in a flash when, through panting breaths, he manages to get out that Cullen should get outside, that there's a fight-

He runs through the Chantry main hall, skidding to a halt through the crowd outside the front doors just in time to hear Ser Linwood shout, "Shut your mouth, mage!" By the time Cullen shoulders his way through the onlookers, Linwood's hand is on his sword, and across the small space between them Enchanter Sorris is gathering flame between his hands.

"Enough!" Cullen shouts, putting himself bodily between them. He risks life and limb by putting a hand to each of their shoulders, shoving them apart forcefully, forcing himself to be heedless of the fire in Sorris's palms. He can no longer nullify magic if this gets out hand, a fact Linwood doesn't know. He'll have to trust that the Enchanter's better nature is stronger than his temper. "Stop this, right now!"

"Knight Captain!" Linwood protests, and he whirls on the man, adrenaline lending his words perhaps an undeserved edge.

"That is _not_ my title," he growls. Linwood came with him from Kirkwall, loyalty perhaps stronger than the man's personal beliefs, and while Cullen would not reward such with an upraised hand, neither can he allow this sort of thing to stand. "We are not Templars any longer." He turns back to Enchanter Sorris, pointing an equally accusing finger at the mage, who has let the fire in his palms die away, hands dropping safely to his side. "We are _all_ part of the Inquisition."

Both men look a little ashamed, stepping back willingly enough, but any moment of triumph that Cullen might feel is immediately gone when, from the edges of the crowd, he hears Chancellor Roderick's grating voice say, "And what does that mean, exactly?"

When he looks over, the crowd has parted to allow Roderick access, the old bastard sauntering up like a player on the stage. Likes his audience, this one does; it lends credence to his grandstanding. Maker, he probably helped incite the fight in the first place. Cullen wouldn't put it past him.

"Back already, Chancellor?" He's acutely aware of Linwood still standing at his shoulder, at the small knots of people still standing about, avidly watching the display. He's not good at diplomacy, but even he knows that how he presents himself here is important. Better to allow the man to vent himself and make him out to be a fool, than to argue with him and give his ideas credence. "Haven't you done enough?" Remind them that Roderick is here to destroy them, link him with the Chantry officials who do nothing while the Inquisition acts. That's been Josephine's suggestion for dealing with the man, anyway.

A tilt of Roderick's head acknowledges the volley, but he merely smiles smugly. "I'm just curious, Commander, as to how the Inquisition and-" He turns his head, seeking, and it's with a sinking heart that Cullen sees Evelyn standing at the edges of the crowd. "-and its 'Herald' will restore order as promised."

She's set aside her stained and dirty leathers in favor of a thick woolen sweater and a simple pair of cotton breeches, and she has her hands stuck in her pockets, obviously uncomfortable with the attention when everyone follows Roderick's gaze to stare curiously at her. His heart squeezes for her, so soon returned from risking her life for the sake of others, only to have to face the bile of this gray-faced bureaucrat.

"Of course you are," he says flatly, and turns away, no longer willing to allow this pisspot to spew his poison over their Herald or her followers. "Back to your duties, all of you!"

It takes them a moment to admit that the show is over, but eventually they do scatter, if reluctantly. Enchanter Sorris takes himself and his apprentice away immediately, perhaps recognizing how close the confrontation had actually gotten, but Ser Linwood waits out the dispersal of the crowd, glaring at Chancellor Roderick. Well, at least some of the man's ire is pointed in the right direction.

"That includes you as well, Linwood," he tells the man. Linwood flushes.

"Commander-"

"And you will see me tomorrow morning at first bell, so we can have a discussion about what it means to serve the Inquisition," he adds, not unkindly. "We can't have another outburst like today. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Commander," Linwood says lowly, then salutes and backs away. Then, and only then, does Evelyn approach.

"That got a bit… heated," she says cautiously. He barks a laugh, and her tense expression lightens a little.

"That's one way of putting it," he says with a sigh. "I suppose it was inevitable. Mages and Templars were already at war; now they're blaming each other for the Divine's death."

"Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order," Roderick says sanctimoniously.

"Who, you? Random clerics who weren't important enough to be at the Conclave?"

"And it's better to follow the rebel Inquisition and its so-called 'Herald of Andraste?'" Cullen levels him with the full weight of his glare, known to cow greater men than Roderick, but the Chancellor only glares back, one supercilious eyebrow arched high. Bastard has balls, Cullen will give him that. "I think not."

Evelyn clears her throat, drawing the attention of both of them back to her. Cullen knows her well enough by now to recognize her faint smile as _trouble._ "I don't know," she says lightly, "the Inquisition seems about as functional as any young family."

"How many families are on the verge of splitting into open war with themselves?"

Cullen winces, but Evelyn just keeps that faintly mocking smile on her face and says, "You obviously haven't spent many Firstdays with yours."

Cullen snorts, amused as always by her clever tongue. "And, of course, the Chantry would _never_ do that."

Roderick huffs, apparently annoyed that his bile isn't finding a willing target. "Centuries of tradition will guide us! We are not the upstart, eager to turn over every apple cart."

Evelyn rolls her eyes and turns back to him. "Remind me why you're allowing the Chancellor to stay?"

"Clearly, your _Templar_ knows where to draw the line."

Cullen has been actually, physically spat upon by mages, and still he has not heard that word spoken with such open disdain. It's an accusation of betrayal more pointed than most, and Cullen straightens, almost growling with the insult, before Evelyn lays a hand on his shoulder.

"His title is _Commander,_ Chancellor Roderick. Or were you not paying attention, before?"

He sends her a look of wordless gratitude, and returns to answering her question. "Because he's toothless." Although Cullen will have to work harder at keeping his temper around the man, if he wants to keep him that way. "There's no point turning the man into a martyr simply because he likes running at the mouth." He gives a very unfriendly smile to Roderick, and enjoys the comprehension that dawns on the man's face. "No matter how much he tries to get us to do otherwise."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Roderick says stiffly.

"Mm-hmm. Unfortunately, he is a good indicator of what to expect in Val Royeaux. I doubt the remaining Grand Clerics will be much kinder."

She shrugs, stuffing her hands once more back in her pockets. "Just try to keep the rioting to a minimum until I get back, hmm?"

"The walls will remain standing," he promises her, and grins a little. "I hope."

"I have faith in your talents," she says teasingly, and jerks her head to the Chantry. "Shall we?"

**~*~**

The five of them gather to make their formal reports and form a plan of attack, but there's little they can discuss that hasn't already been decided by two weeks of messages back and forth. With the disapproval of the Chantry hanging over their heads, there is little they can do till it's resolved, one way or another. Even if the confrontation in Val Royeaux goes poorly, facing the whispers of her accusers is the only way that Evelyn can move forward, and the Inquisition with her. There are too many players waiting things out on the fence to play aloof now. Tomorrow Evelyn will leave once more, and Cassandra will accompany her, for whatever that is worth. Cullen will simply have to make sure that peace is kept until they get back.

Leliana goes to the rookery to send her messages, and the rest of them disperse, Evelyn yawning her way down the path. Cassandra frowns after her thoughtfully.

"What is it?"

"The Herald is… not what I expected," she says, and Cullen finds himself chuckling.

"No, I'm sorry," he says, when she gives him an exasperated look, "it's just that I thought the same thing, when first I met her."

"I imagine she is not much like the mages you knew in Kirkwall," Cassandra allows.

"No, she hasn't had her spirit broken." It comes out bitter, far more bitter than even he intends, and he looks away. "Forgive me."

"Certainly." He's certain that he can feel the Seeker's scrutinizing gaze on him, but he refuses to to turn and see for sure. "How are you feeling, Commander?"

Terrible. He has pushed himself too far these past few days and he knows it, but it's easier to avoid the dreams when he can simply fall into an exhausted sleep on his bedroll at the end of a long day. With Cassandra back, however, he knows he can't afford such erratic behavior, so he plans to seek his bed shortly.

"Well enough, Seeker, well enough." She gives him a short nod, accepting the lie for what it is, and looks back to the walkway where Evelyn disappeared. With her gaze away from him, he lets his curiosity get the better of his reservation and says, "What about her is so surprising to you, if I may ask?"

There's a pause where Cassandra seems as if she might dismiss the question, and then- "She does not take _anything_ seriously!" she bursts out. "The Hinterlands were not hit so badly by the Breach as some other places, but the devastation caused by the mage-Templar conflict was… Rarely have I seen its equal, on such a large scale. Even Varric was silent. And she wandered through the countryside cracking _jokes!_ "

Cullen frowns and folds his arms over his chest. "You're saying that she's callous?"

"No! Or at least, not precisely. I don't know." Cassandra sighs. "She was a great favorite of the children. Everywhere we made camp, she was surrounded by little ones, when their families would not approach us for fear or awe. She always made time for them, happy to tell stories so far-fetched even Varric would not so perjure his pen, even though she must have been exhausted. And I do believe that she felt very deeply about the plight of the refugees. She certainly worked hard to alleviate some of their troubles, and not just for the sake of the Inquisition. She is merely very… casual. About some things."

Cullen is trying to follow her train of thought, but he's not sure he can grasp her point. "Her making jokes is a problem?"

Cassandra gives an annoyed little huff and looks away. "I know it sounds foolish. I am considered a very serious person, I know, and I should not expect others to be as I. Still. Surely the Herald of Andraste should not be so… frivolous?"

Cullen has to turn a smile into a cough. "You haven't spent much time with soldiers, have you?"

Her frown grows deeper. "I am a Seeker of the Order."

"I'll take that as a 'no.' Members of your Order are a very… select group of individuals. Those who succeed at their training, who pass the ritual that grants their powers, undergo an experience that would change any person. The common soldier tends to develop a very different way of coping with the stress of the battlefield."

"Lady Trevelyan is hardly _common._ "

No, no he would never describe her as _that._ "I'll grant you that, Seeker. Still."

"No, I suppose you're right." She frowns down the path once more. "You seem to know her quite well. I've spent a fortnight with her, and still cannot seem to grasp how her mind works."

He picks his words cautiously. "We are… not that dissimilar, her and I."

She cracks a smile at that. "If you say so." She straightens away from her slouch against the doorframe. "Regardless, it does not matter. She is an honorable woman, whatever her mannerisms, and I can respect her fortitude and skill. Understanding is not necessary."

That sounds fairly lonely to Cullen, but he would never dare voice as such to the Lady Seeker. Instead he merely nods. "Good evening, then, Seeker. Try to get some rest."

"We do have a long ride tomorrow," she agrees with a sigh. "Commander."

He goes the other way down the path, seeking his own quarters, a little lost in thought. Evelyn isn't exactly what he would have expected, either, but not because she's able to joke in the face of danger and sorrow- that, to Cullen's mind, is merely the sign of a soldier with healthy coping mechanisms. The battlefield tends to breed a black sense of humor. No, Evelyn surprised him with her occasional awkwardness, her easy sense of humor, her shyness from attention, her way of putting people at ease. Most of all, he would never have expected to enjoy a sense of camaraderie with an apostate mage, much less one he's known for, truthfully, such a short span of time. It seems like longer.

When he gets closer to his little house, he spots a shadowed figure crouched in front of his door, and his heart speeds pace at the sight. A spy for the enemy, whoever he or she may be? Merely a thief? Who would _dare?_

"You, there," he calls coldly, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "Stand, and turn to face me. Hands in the air. _Slowly._ "

The figure freezes at the sound of his voice, then obeys reluctantly. Something about the shape of them rings familiar and snags at his memory, and then as the person finishes turning the light catches her face and it's-

"Evelyn?"

She winces. "You were supposed to be speaking with Cassandra."

What in the Maker's name is she _doing?_ "I was."

"Oh." She looks down at the bits of metal in her hands. "Then I'm a lot more out of practice at this then I remembered."

He lets his sword settle back into the sheath and crosses his arms over his chest. "Yes, but what were you _doing?_ I warn you, I don't take well to pranks, so if you planned to do some foolish-"

"No!" she yelps, and even in the low lighting he can see a blush stain her cheeks. "Maker, you send these things to test me," she sighs, putting a hand over her face. She reaches into her pocket and thrusts something at him. "I was planning on leaving this for you. Here."

Confused, he reaches out and takes the object from her hand, holding it up to the light. It's a jagged piece of quartz, in a very unusual shade of pink. For a moment he doesn't understand, then he recalls the fool's gold she left him before.

He looks from her, to the stone, and back again. "You were breaking into my quarters… to leave me a gift."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," she mutters. "Worked before."

He chuckles. "Did you consider simply handing it to me? I won't bite, I promise." He holds the crystal up to the light again, admiring the way the light catches and refracts through its surfaces. "I _like_ presents." And so rarely has occasion to receive them. His siblings send him things for Wintersend, when they know where he is, practical things like warm clothes or books to read, but a gift just for the sake of giving it- never.

"Yes, but then you're standing there, _looking_ at me," she says. "No thank you."

He tucks the stone in his pocket. He'll put it with the other, before bed. Perhaps he'll have to find a better place to store them. "The gift is appreciated," he says with a smile. "I'll have to find something to return it."

"No, that's… not the point," she mutters, and backs up a step. "Look, I just saw it and thought you might like it. I do that sort of thing, you know, grab interesting things when I'm supposed to be scouting where I'm going, and usually they just end up filling my pockets. Don't make too much of a thing about it."

"Very well," he says, because she looks so awkward, and letting it go is likely all the returned favor she really wants right now. "Good luck in Val Royeaux."

She smiles, relieved. "I'll likely need it." She gives him a soldier's salute, fist over heart, and sketches a short bow. "Sleep well."

"And to you." He stands by the door for a moment, watching her nearly flee down the path- she does not normally walk that fast, he's certain of it- before he chuckles and unlocks the door to his quarters, shaking his head. A gift! The first had been a joke, he'd thought, just her way of answering his jocular challenge, but a second is a kindness he can't ignore. She said she didn't want a gift, but… Well, he'll think of something. Perhaps when she's in Orlais.

**~*~**

Leliana's agents send word of the confrontation in Val Royeaux some six days after Evelyn and Cassandra set out, but it's another two weeks before they actually return. Leliana assures him that they're merely exploring their options in the city, making new contacts and exploring potential alliances, but still, he frets.

Both women are more than capable of handling themselves against any who would care to strike at them directly, but he doesn't think he's being overly unfair to say that neither of them are the most diplomatic souls, either. Evelyn has a quick tongue, and Cassandra a blunt one. He would feel better if Josephine were with them, but she's needed here to shepherd the fragile egos of two visiting nobles.

At least they have Varric. The scion of house Tethras tagged along on their trip, claiming that he had a few contacts in the city that he could turn to their advantage. Maker only knows what kind of fruit _that_ will bear, but the rogue has a silver tongue and more ties to nobility than any dwarven merchant should be able to claim, and he will watch their backs. Whatever can be said about Varric, and so many things often are, nobody can claim that he's short on loyalty.

When Evelyn and Cassandra finally _do_ return, it's with bad news, two new friends, and a list of connections for Leliana and Josephine to work. He's in the Chantry with Leliana and Josephine when they actually ride back into town, so he misses being able to greet them at the gate, but he can't deny the surprise and pleasure he feels when he comes out of the office to see her standing in the front hall, discussing something with Cassandra.

"Evelyn! You've returned." Remembering his manners, he nods to Cassandra. "And greetings to you as well, Lady Seeker."

On a lesser woman, he thinks the twitch of her lips might actually be a smile. "Commander. We are ready to report whenever you are."

"Leliana and Josephine are already in the war room," he says. "We've had word of your recent activities. It's a shame that the Templars have taken leave of their senses, as well as the capitol."

She inclines her head. In some ways her breach was more flagrant than his- he walked away from the Templar order to join the Inquisition, but she was still a member of the Seeker Order when she declared it, and the betrayal must sting. "Quite. I will see you momentarily, Commander."

He turns back to Evelyn as she leaves them, noticing as he does so how tired their Herald looks. "You were gone longer than expected," he says, trying to keep his voice light. "We were worried for you."

"'We?'"

"Well, all right, _I_ was worried," Cullen admits. Saying it aloud harms nothing but his dignity, and the confession warms her tired eyes, so it's worth it. "Leliana and Josephine had every confidence in your abilities. I was the faithless one."

"Well, you'll be pleased to know that we surpassed your expectations," she says with a little smile. "I think even the Grand Cleric doesn't hate us too much at the moment, though that could be because the Lord Seeker made the Templars look far worse than we ever could."

"Yes, we heard." He sighs. "I suppose it does make contacting the Templars for aid more… complicated."

"They were already unlikely to ally with any movement with an apostate as the face," she points out. "But the decision won't be made today. For now, let's just go in and go over the reports. We can figure out a plan of attack later."

"A sound plan, _Lady Herald,_ " he says, teasingly. She dimples up at him.

"A fine compliment, Lord Commander," she replies, and heads for the war room. This time, he's _certain_ she puts a swing in her hips as she goes.

**~*~**

They work for hours, until Cassandra, surprisingly, is the first to beg off, citing her need for sleep. Josephine is game to keep working, but then Leliana takes her leave to send out some messages to her runners, and Cullen takes the opportunity to get their Herald out of there before she works herself into exhaustion.

"I can see the circles under your eyes," he says, when she protests. "You need sleep."

"You're not my mother," she grumbles, and the open petulance in her voice only further shores up his resolve. Her wit may take many forms, but "sulky" is generally not one of them.

"Shall I play your physician, then? My diagnosis: too much stress, not enough sleep. The treatment: a hearty meal and a full night's sleep on a bed that doesn't smell like horse."

She narrows her eyes at him. "You drive a hard bargain, ser."

He folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes right back. "If it means getting my way, absolutely."

It's probably a measure of how tired she actually is that she folds immediately. "Ah, well, I can't say that it doesn't sound appealing." She rises from her stool and puts her hands on her hips, stretching her spine improbably far with a rather alarming number of pops. "All right, then. We can finish in the morning."

"Absolutely," Josephine puts in. Cullen starts; he almost forgot that she was there with them, much less watching the pair of them avidly. "I think we could all use a break, Lady Herald. We can finalize our recruitment plan tomorrow."

"That sounds good." Evelyn shrugs back into her thin cotton cloak, a meager defense against the night air as the seasons turn inexorably towards winter. Cullen bites the inside of his cheek against the desire to offer up his own. "Evening, Lady Josephine."

"Good evening, Lady Evelyn."

Evelyn pauses next to him, standing near the doorway, and puts a hand to his shoulder. "Thanks for looking after me," she says softly, and then slips through the door before he can respond. Cullen smiles after her for a moment, feeling warm and foolish with it.

Josephine's cleared throat gets his attention. When he looks over to her, the Lady Ambassador's brows are raised in polite inquiry. "You certainly have a way with the Herald," she says leadingly. "I had no idea that you had become such friends, on such short acquaintance."

He clears his throat. "War makes for fast friends, Lady Josephine. One doesn't have the time for anything else."

"Oh, I'm sure." She starts gathering her papers together. "Still, you have to admit that it's a surprise. Her, an apostate from the rebellion, and you a former Templar. It's good that you've found common ground."

Why is it, he thinks, irritated, that when she says that, it sounds like she means something else altogether? "She is a woman worthy of respect," he says curtly. "And we do, of course, have the Inquisition in common."

"Of course you do, Commander," she replies. Papers gathered, she gives him a particularly sweet smile, which makes him nervous. "I think it's a good thing. One can never have enough friends, of course."

"That's certainly how you live your life."

Her laugh is surprised, and genuine. "I suppose it is. And you, Commander? Do you prefer enemies?"

He holds the door open for her, watches her blow out her candle in its holder as she passes him with a polite nod. "I prefer whatever gets the job done, Lady Josephine," he says. "As, I suspect, do you."

"Very astute." She locks the war room behind them, unwilling to risk the contents to any prying eyes, and gives him a regal nod. "Good evening, Commander."

"And to you, Lady Ambassador."

"Just Josephine, if you please." She laughs when he gives her a startled glance. "As you say, I prefer friends," she says gently, then takes herself into her office before he can reply.

It's just as well. He has no idea what he would have said.

**~*~**

Evelyn brings them all breakfast from the kitchens when they meet the next morning, earning her the undying loyalty of Sister Leliana, to hear her delighted noises as she tears into a piece of bread. Cullen just shakes his head and smiles because he's certain that in a roundabout manner, this is her way of saying thank-you for his playing the mother-hen the night before. Perhaps even her way of admitting that it was justified.

He feels even more justified as they finish collating reports, because it becomes increasingly clear that too many of their troubles will require her personal touch. For better or worse, she is the public face of the Inquisition, as well as one of its most capable agents. By the very nature of their organization, most of their recruiting before the Breach was done among the faithful, and while Leliana and her contacts brought a refreshing number of very capable scouts and such, they're short on trained field commanders. Evelyn has the most experience by far, and so by necessity they must use her to solve far too many of the problems before them. The real trouble is figuring out what to set her at _first._

"All right, enough," she says finally, thrusting her finger at the map. "Storm Coast or back to the Hinterlands. Consensus?"

All four of them look at each other mutely. There's arguments in favor of both, and none of them can come to an agreement one way or another. Cullen and Josephine would prefer the Storm Coast, to clear up supply and shipping lanes from their closest port, while Cassandra and Leliana are in favor of going back to the Hinterlands, to eliminate the bandits harassing the refugees and clear the roads to Redcliffe. At this point, they're all heartily sick of of hearing each other talk.

"Then I'm calling it," she declares. "Storm Coast it is. The refugees in the Crossroads are safe enough for the time being, as long as they stay off the Northern road, and some of the farmers are getting back to their fields. The situation in the Storm Coast is more immediately perilous, and we desperately need sea lanes open if we want to import more aid from Orlais or the Marches."

Leliana doesn't seem overly thrilled with the decision, but she nods nevertheless. "If you're sure, Lady Herald," she says reluctantly. "We cannot do this without you, after all. Still, I would appreciate it if you would wrap up business there as quickly as possible."

"I'll see what I can do," Evelyn says respectfully.

Leliana sighs, looks around for any final objections, and, finding none, sticks Evelyn's designated pin in the map. "All right, then. Do you know when you plan to leave?"

"Not tomorrow," Evelyn says firmly. "Perhaps the day after, if we can sort out supplies quickly enough. I don't want to delay things any more than you do, but if we're going to be in the field for any length of time, I'd like to make sure that all our gear is in good shape."

"That is more than reasonable," Cassandra says. "Would you have my sword as well?"

Evelyn gives her a quick, startled look. "I thought you might rather not…"

Cassandra sighs. It's her _people-are-particularly-slow-today_ sigh. Cullen is intimately familiar with it. "I would prioritize things differently, but I will not sulk because you made a decision when we could not," she explains, more-or-less patiently. "If you have need of me, then I would be at your side."

"Then yes, I could absolutely use you. Does the day after tomorrow work for you?"

"As I said, more than reasonable." Cassandra looks around the table. "Does this work for everyone?"

Cullen shrugs, and sees Leliana nodding reluctantly, Josephine enthusiastically. "I think we're agreed," he says. "Shall we break to start making arrangements?"

"I need the Lady Herald to stay and talk numbers with me a moment," Josephine says. "If you're planning on meeting with those mercenaries at the coast, we should have some of the payment options worked out in advance."

Evelyn nods and turns to Cullen. "I'd like to borrow you for a few hours tomorrow to spar and break in my new gear before we leave," she says. "Would you be willing to volunteer?"

Cassandra casts him a swift glance, aware, as the others are not, that his abilities are considerably more limited than they once were. "If you want to test your magic, other Templars would be more practiced than I…" he says cautiously, trying to work out a way of getting out of it without revealing his secret, but she shakes her head before he can finish.

"No, just a straight-up spar, staff to shield. No magic involved." He conceals a small sigh of relief. If she remains with them, he will have to tell her the truth eventually, but… not now. Not just yet. "Think you have the time?"

Almost certainly not, but he'll make it work. She has enough on her shoulders; if he can offer some assistance, he's happy to do so. As well, he can't say that he doesn't look forward to the chance to test her martial skills with his own. He knows she's had training unusual for a mage of her magical caliber, and it would be… interesting to see it for himself.

"Of course," he says. "After lunch?"

"Let's make it a little later, if that's all right with you," she says. "I hate to fight on a full stomach if I can help it."

"Ah yes, very sensible." He'll have to shuffle around some meetings… Nothing he can't handle. Perhaps he might even be able to join her for a drink afterwards, if people cooperate. "That should work. I'll leave you to it, then."

Evelyn and Josephine retreat into the Ambassador's office, and Leliana sighs, looking down at the map in front of them. "I'll have to send some messengers," she says. "It would have been simpler to work on stabilizing the Hinterlands, but I can work with this."

"At least we managed to come to a decision at all," Cullen offers. "One advantage of having a fifth."

"Indeed." Leliana casts him a little sideways glance. "You're… happy that she joined the Inquisition, then? I know the two of you have seemed friendly, but I wondered…"

His standard demurrals of his ability to work with mages will not work with Leliana. She was there when Sol- when the Warden came upon him, trapped in that endless nightmare in the Tower. She knows, better than most, what he would have done in the name of safety, if cooler heads had not prevailed. The fact that she is willing to work with him after witnessing him on such a day is a testament to her strength of character, and her ability to forgive. He cannot blame her for worrying.

"The mages in this camp have nothing to fear from me, Sister, and the Herald especially," he says gravely. He inclines his head. "If you'll excuse me."

"Of course," she says, and it's a kindness on her part to let him leave so quickly. They both know it. "Good day, Commander."

"And to you, Sister. Lady Seeker." He nods to both of them, and makes his escape.

**~*~**

The memory still troubles him later, as he puts his recruits through drills in the training yard. He sometimes wonders what Cassandra was thinking, to recruit a man such as he to lead the forces of a group designed to appeal to mages and Templars both. He wonders that Leliana is willing to work with him at all, after seeing him call for the slaughter of dozens of innocents. Maker, _children_ were in that tower, and he would have had them all cut down in the Right of Annulment. Sometimes, he thinks that the failure of memory some Templars suffer after a lifetime of lyrium would be a blessing.

Evelyn comes out after a few hours, the elf-girl she recruited in Val Royeaux at her heels, and sets up on the archery range to put Sera through her paces. Cullen keeps half an eye on the pair of them, and finds himself distracted from his black thoughts as the afternoon progresses, and the testing of Sera's archery skills turns into something more playful. After a bit it seems more like showing off, as the two of them descend into what seems to be a sharp-shooting competition, Sera with her arrows and Evelyn with her energy bolts, their Herald laughing as she's quickly eclipsed by Sera doing greater and greater levels of trick shots. The two of them quit the field after an hour or two, Evelyn's arm slung friendly around the girl's shoulders, and Cullen finds it easier to turn back to his work with a smile.

The next day, Evelyn seems to spend most of the morning running here and there dealing with supply issues before her departure, but disappears into the smithy after lunch and doesn't emerge for some time. Cullen has arrangements of his own to make before tomorrow, and loses himself in work for some time until his lieutenant looks up, over his shoulder, and clears his throat.

Cullen turns, to find Evelyn standing behind him, dressed in full fighting leathers, brand-new and fitted to her form like a second skin. "I must have lost track of time," he exclaims, trying to keep his eyes from wandering. Sweet Andraste, she's fit. "My apologies."

"None needed," she replies, and nods to his men. "I can wait, if you need to wrap things up."

There are some things he could… But no. "You all have your orders. Report to me if anything comes up." They all nod, and he leaves the tent, falling into step with her and relishing the fresh autumn air after the stifling closeness of the tent. "There, I'm all yours."

"Excellent news indeed," she says with a teasing sideways smile that feels entirely too intimate. "Although I know your day has to have been just as long as mine. Are you still up for a spar?"

"Always," he says with a grin. "I don't get to practice my skills as often as I'd like. Too busy training the others, I suppose."

"Oh, good," she says, relieved. "I hate to go out in brand-new gear. There's always some weak seam, or spot that needs to be let out. Better to figure it out now, rather than have to make my own repairs in the field."

"Very sensible," he says approvingly. They fetch up against the gate to one of the training yards, empty at the moment, and he sweeps an overly-deep bow just for the fun of it, gesturing extravagantly. "After you, milady."

"You're too kind, serrah," she dimples.

He shuts the gate behind them, then nods to her leathers. "This the new gear Harritt made for you?"

"The one and only." She spreads her arms for his inspection. "What do you think?"

Teasingly, he twirls one finger in instruction for her to turn, surprised when she complies. It takes real strength of will to keep his gaze above her waist, and inspecting the armor rather than… anything else.

It looks much like a scout's gear, designed for ease of movement, and patterned to blend in forest and highland alike, but he takes note of the wire pattern worked into her bracers. It's similar to the one she put on her staff before leaving on her hunting trip weeks ago, but considerably more elaborate, and made with silver wire and little polished stones rather that copper and scrap metal. The boots are higher, too, oiled leather all the way up above her knees, likely in deference to her coastal destination, and he notes approvingly the gorget protecting her vulnerable neck.

"All you're missing is a proper cloak," he says after a moment. "The one you have won't hold up. It gets cold by the ocean."

"You don't have to tell me that. I lived in Ostwick, remember? Just up the coast from you Kirkwallers."

"Fair enough. Still, we'll have to see if we can find you something before you leave tomorrow."

"No, I'll do well enough with what I have," she protests. "The refugees need all the goods we can spare, and my current cloak will do well enough. This armor is warmer than it looks, and I've my magic to warm me if needed. I've made do with less."

"If you say so." It takes all of his will to keep his expression neutral. He's just figured out how to repay her for the gifts; it will take some doing to secure it before the morrow, but he thinks he can pull it off. A thought for later. "Ready to begin?"

She pulls her staff from her back, and holds it out at the ready position. He eyes the sharp blade Harritt has added at one end with respect, and resolves to be quick with his shield. He's seen her cast before, and he can't truly say that he thinks she'll be any slower at more mundane combat. He'll have his work cut out for him.

"Ready," she says with a grin.

Two hours later, sweating and short of breath, Cullen is about to cry mercy when Evelyn earns his undying gratitude by calling a halt. "Well fucking fought," she pants, hands on her knees. "I feel like I've gone ten rounds with a dragon."

"I could say the same to you." His shield arm _aches,_ and he's fairly certain that his armor is the only thing that saved him from a cut on the ribs when he failed to block a blow he should have. He's going to have a spectacular bruise there tomorrow. "Where did you learn the thing with the-" He gives up on words, relies on a gesture.

"Oh, yeah, that one's nasty," she agrees. Breath regained, she straightens and sets her staff back into its harness on her back. "I picked that up from one of the standard-bearers in my company, actually. Turns out that those flagpoles aren't just for show."

"I shall have ever so much more respect for them in the future." He looks around and sees that they've gathered an audience. _Oh, Maker_. "Don't you lot have work to do?" he demands, and smirks a little when they immediately scatter. Yep, still got it. "As if they have nothing better to do, honestly."

"The Herald of Andraste sparring with the Commander of the Inquisition?" Evelyn inquires, nudging open the gate with one hip. "I'd watch that show. You know, if it wasn't me."

"Well, you certainly seem to be more comfortable with the attention," he points out.

"Not the religious faith, maybe. But I _like_ fighting. Some things it's fun to show off."

"As well to give them another reason to respect you."

She flashes a grin. "Exactly so."

"And your gear fits well?" He turns a smirk in her direction. After the first half-hour, when he realized just how much she was smiling, he began to suspect. "That _was_ the purpose of our sparring, yes?"

"Damn, you've caught me out," she admits. He can't be sure, but he thinks she might be blushing. "I just thought… It would be good, to take the time. Before I'm gone for a while."

He stops and turns to face her. In the gathering darkness, the scar on her cheek shows up paler than the rest, and he realizes with a start that he no longer thinks of her face as lopsided when she smiles. It's merely… her face. Familiar to him as any of his men, for all that he's only had a handful of days with her, over the weeks. He spoke truly to Josephine before, when he said that war makes for fast friends, but still. He was in Kirkwall for the better part of a decade, and still managed to form very few real friendships there. He likes his comrades here in the Inquisition well enough, but there's just something about her, something that sets him at ease despite her magical gifts.

"I don't mind," he says. "It was good to get in some proper exercise. We should do this again, when you return."

"That sounds good." She tucks her hands in her pockets. "Um. Some of us are going to meet in the tavern, have a few drinks before we have to ride out tomorrow. Would you join us?"

"As much as I would like to, I have work of my own that can't wait," he says, and his regret is sincere. He would like to spend another evening with her, surround himself with their comrades, enjoy the merriment that seems to trail in her wake. But he can't. "So I shall say my goodbyes now, as I likely won't see you before you ride out. You're planning an early start, I hear."

"Oh." She looks down at the ground, rocks on her heels. "Um. Then I guess I should- here."

She pulls something out of her pocket, a box no bigger across than his thumb and very flat. "What's this?" he asks softly.

"You told me not to leave it in your quarters this time," she offers with a little shrug. "Just do me a favor and wait to open it tomorrow. I don't like you looking at me when you do."

"That's… fair enough, I suppose," he says, still a little baffled. Small tokens found while she was roaming are one thing; she herself said that she liked to pick them up anyway, and that he just made a convenient excuse. This is something else altogether. "Did you truly get me something in Val Royeaux?"

She stuffs her hands back in her pockets and shrugs again. "Josephine made sure that we were well-funded for the trip. It's not expensive or anything, just something I thought you might appreciate. Don't make a thing out of it."

It's almost exactly what she said last time, with the piece of quartz. Baffled, he agrees, "Very well, I shan't." He tucks the box away in his own pocket, though he's fiercely curious; he won't break her trust in such a way. "Good luck out there, Lady Herald."

The use of the honorific is deliberate, teasing, and it gets her to crack a smile. "And good luck back here, Lord Commander," she returns. She salutes him, and he returns it, oddly formal and yet just right for the moment. "I'll see you when I return."

"Victoriously, if you can manage it."

Her teeth flash in the gathering darkness, and he smiles back, helplessly. "I would accept nothing less."

**~*~**

He doesn't rise in time to see her off the next morning, but that just means that he can open his gift the moment he's awake. He could have opened it the night before, but… Well, sometimes he feels like he's had enough moments of dishonor in his life. He likes to keep his word when he can.

Inside the box is a little medallion, a little loop of metal affixed to the top to be suspended from a chain. It's cheaply made, iron and gilt paint, the sort of thing sold by the dozen in stalls in the lower markets of any major city. Usually they cost only a few coins, as inexpensive as she promised. They usually have a royal or Chantry seal on them, but instead of the lion of Orlais or the Chantry sunburst, this one is emblazoned with the mark of the Inquisition: Templar sword, Maker's light, and the all-seeing eye of the Seekers, all in one.

That quickly, he thinks. That quickly have the merchants rushed to capitalize on their presence. It's… a very good sign, however one looks at it. And Evelyn saw it in the markets and thought of him.

Well. It's a good thing that he got her a present in return, isn't it?


	4. Chapter 4

The first raven comes back from the Storm Coast a week or so later, carrying initial reports from the Herald for all of them. She's met the Chargers and found them well-worth the coin, apparently, and their Qunari leader has a bonus value for Leliana. To him, she writes that there is still no sign of his men, but they will begin investigating bandit activity the next day. She still has hope that she'll find some of them alive.

At the very bottom of the report, in a cramped postscript, she's added: _You shouldn't have. But it's very warm. So thank you._

He grins to himself. Some of the Marchers sneered at his great pauldrons when they'd taken up residence at Haven, but he's a Fereldan born and bred, and he'd known how the winters would get, especially at this elevation. Perhaps he shouldn't have taken the cloak from the stores for her, but even the hard-hearted Quartermaster Threnn admitted to the need for the Herald to be well-equipped, and it had been a simple matter to slip it into the packs that had been readied for their trip. Two can play at that game, and while she once asked for no gifts in return, he knew that this, at least, wouldn't be so unwelcome. Besides, shouldn't she be saving her magic for more important purposes? Really, it's to all their benefit that she isn't freezing.

His instruction to his men on the coast includes a letter for her in which he says exactly that, as well as a story of an embarrassing training mishap he thinks she'll appreciate, a request for a cursory mineral survey, and at the bottom, a crude sketch of the medallion she gave him, with a chain trailing away from the top. Her returning report, delivered by a very large, very loud Qunari with a whole troop of mercenaries behind him, notifies him grimly of the deaths of his men at the hands of a group of bandits-slash-cultists, but she thinks she has a way to recruit them as agents in that area, to avoid any more pointless bloodshed. Her letter has a drawing of the challenge medallion that Solas is helping her craft, much more detailed than his own effort, alongside a sketch of Cassandra that wouldn't look out of place in one of the adventure serials, sitting in a tent and polishing her armor.

_It's very wet here,_ she writes. Her handwriting is surprisingly businesslike for a noble _or_ a scholar, neat and tidy but lacking the usual flourishes. Her artistic talent, on the other hand, is remarkable. With a few spare lines, she's managed to capture the familiar pugnacious jut of Cassandra's jaw, the resigned slope of her shoulders. The Lady Seeker isn't overfond of getting rained on, if Cullen remembers correctly. _Rust is a serious concern._

After that, it's on. He doesn't have half her skill with a pen, but he does have the advantage of numerous long meetings with diplomats and lieutenants that she doesn't have to suffer through, and he finds himself reverting to a boyhood habit of doodling when he should be taking notes. They're rough sketches only, but he thinks that she appreciates them nonetheless. At least, he hopes so.

He stores them up to deliver every few days along with the more businesslike reports, accompanied by little notes to keep her updated on the overall state of the Inquisition in her absence. Originally he intends them to be more like informal reports, but they turn out to be more like, well... gossip.

_I had another conversation with Chancellor Roderick today. Well, I call it a conversation; apparently he called it something else when he complained to Josephine later. I don't know what that man's problem is. I was perfectly friendly!_

_I've seen your "friendliness" with Roderick before, and I'd be afraid of you, too,_ she writes back. _But, speaking of new friends, I successfully recruited the Blades of Hessarian to our cause. Do you want to know how I did this? I'd love to tell you. I challenged a man to single combat. I want you to know this because that is a sentence I never thought I would put to paper. I felt like Hawke dueling the Arishok in *Tales of the Champion.* Of course, I don't think Hawke was dealing with an angry drunk, either. Bastard sicced his dogs on me, then chased me around with a giant hammer. Very undignified._

There's a little cartoon sketch in the margins, a large man with a very prominent wineskin attached to his belt whose upraised hammer looks like… Well, like something else. Cullen laughs for five minutes straight when he gets it.

_Life of the Herald isn't all it's cracked up to be, eh? You should take it up with Varric, see if he can't glamorize it when he writes *your* biography. Speaking of whom, rumor has it that he's been seen behind the bar with Flissa, helping her serve drinks on *two* separate occasions. I'm a little concerned that Harritt's journeyman, what's his name, is going to murder him in a fit of jealous rage._

She works her way north, up the coast, hunting traces of the Grey Wardens at Leliana's behest. He gets a new batch of recruits in, mostly former Templars who disillusioned with the Lord Seeker's actions in Val Royeaux, and has to work double-time to make sure that they're integrated well into camp, paired with men that Cullen knows will curb any zealous tendencies they might harbor. She clears out a nest of giant spiders threatening their loggers and finds out the hard way that they're poisonous, saved only by a quick poulticing at Solas's hands. The sketch she does of the spiders is clearly influenced by some hallucinatory substance, either the poison or its antidote, and he takes one look at it before shuddering and putting it away under a very large stack of papers. Josephine hosts a Fereldan Bann and his eldest son, and Cullen finds himself assigned to squire them around for three days straight. It wouldn't be so bad, if the younger of the two weren't a twittering idiot, though the elder has seen some campaigns in his day. His sketch of the man's son is less than kind, however- but only Evelyn will see it, anyway.

Eventually the trail of the Grey Wardens leads to a dead-end, but by that point, Leliana is getting frustrated with her inability to get agents through the Northern road in the Hinterlands to scope out the situation in Redcliffe, and instead of the planned resupply in Haven, Evelyn and her squad go directly back to the Crossroads to hunt bandits. It takes her eight straight days of tracking through the hills before she finally manages to locate and scout their stronghold, but reports that it's too well-fortified for her group to crack on its own. Their soldiers in the area are all already loaded to capacity with duties, so Cullen elects to send Iron Bull and his Chargers to her, to put them through their paces. She replies with a sketch of Bull, greatsword hoisted over his shoulder and a mug of ale in his other hand. _He's a crazy bastard,_ she writes. _Do you know that he won't even wear proper armor? Says it "inhibits his movement."_

_Qunari are weird,_ he writes back. _And that's my official statement on the matter._

The attack on the bandit stronghold goes well, both by Evelyn's account and Leliana's reports, but once they take the territory it's another two days mopping up the stragglers. _Even Solas is starting to make noises about getting back to Haven sometime soon,_ Evelyn tells him, exhaustion palpable in every line on the page. _And Maker knows I want to sleep in a real bed so badly I dream about it. But Leliana says that the road East is clear at last. I should at least make contact with the mages in Redcliffe. I know you don't approve, but I have friends there. If they can help us close the Breach, shouldn't that take precedence over everything else?_

It takes him a day, during which his recruits wonder what in the Maker's name got into their Commander, but the next raven that goes out he sends, _Do what you have to do._

And then he doesn't hear back from her for four days.

**~*~**

Leliana assures him, through her scouts, that Evelyn goes into Redcliffe and comes out healthy, though neither of them have reports as to what happened inside the gates. On the fifth day, Evelyn herself comes riding through Haven's front gates, visibly drooping with exhaustion, her squad trailing along in her wake. At her side, on what's obviously a borrowed pony from its mismatched size, is a toffee-skinned mage in Tevinter robes.

"Well, it's certainly… rustic," the mage is saying, as Cullen goes to them as quickly as he can manage without sprinting in front of all his men. "You really live here?"

"As much as I live anywhere, recently," she says, her voice low and rough. Cullen grabs her charger's reins as she lets them drop, and she gives him an unutterably sweet smile that makes his heart clench.

"It's good to see you," she says lowly, and slides almost bonelessly from the saddle, staggering a little when she hits the ground. He puts out his arm quickly and she grabs onto it, just a moment, to steady herself, before she gives his wrist a quick squeeze and straightens up. "Cullen, this is Dorian Pavus. He's here to help us. There's… news."

"What happened?" he asks. _Pavus_ is a Tevinter name, too. "I know you have friends there. Is everyone... all right?"

She gives a tired laugh. "I don't know. Do you think 'sold into indentured servitude to a time-traveling cultist magister' is all right?"

There's so much there he can't even begin to unpack it at once. _"What?"_ he says, stupidly, and her mouth twists wryly in response.

"You _do_ have a way with words, my dear," Pavus says. The mage dismounts his pony with a quick slide, and comes around to stand next to them, the pony's reins in his hands. "May I suggest that we stable our intrepid mounts and get inside to make our explanations? It's quite cold out here."

"This is balmy, considering the month," Evelyn tells him. "It just gets colder."

Pavus shudders. "I dread to think."

Cullen looks back to Evelyn. She gives him a tired smile. "I'll explain once we're inside," is all she says.

He burns with curiosity, of course, but she's so clearly at the outer edge of her limits just now, and who can blame her? On top of more than a month of steady travel and combat, to get from Redcliffe to Haven in three days she must have been riding flat out. He can't even imagine how exhausted she must feel.

"Of course," he says, and loops her charger's reins rather than handing them back to her when she gestures. The big bay snorts at him, but he's not interested in hearing its opinion. "Pavus, give me yours as well, I'll see to the stabling. You two go in and get cleaned up, and I'll meet you in the Chantry."

The mage eyes him speculatively as he hands over the reins. "They certainly do grow them large and mannered here in the South," is all he says, however, and then sketches out an elaborate bow in Evelyn's direction. "Come, my dear, I sense baths in our future. Surely our report can wait that long."

"Dorian, this is an emergency situation…"

"Not _that_ much of an emergency, surely. We smell rather appallingly of horse."

Pavus begins walking to the gate, coaxing her along with a smile, and she follows reluctantly, but she does follow. Cullen watches them go with narrowed eyes. Cassandra rides up next to him, and he looks up at her.

"That man is a magister, correct? I wasn't hallucinating?"

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. "And very full of himself, as well," she says disdainfully. "He is truly here to aid us, however, and to all appearances he has gone to great trouble and expense to come to the rescue of the Redcliffe mages. From his former mentor, no less. I have no interest in trusting him, of course, but I think he can be of use to us."

"He and Evelyn seem… friendly."

"I suspect that he is quite like that with _every_ willing flirt," Cassandra sighs. She swings a leg over the cantle of her saddle and slides more-or-less gracefully to the ground with a groan. "Pay it no mind. We have greater concerns, and the Herald can take care of herself."

"Of course," Cullen says, and leads the way to the stables. Of course he trusts Evelyn to look out for herself, he tells himself. He would just be happier if she was looking out for herself farther away from a magister of suspect character.

At least she seemed happy to see him. He somewhat wondered what it would be like, to see her again after so many weeks of friendly letters, but for all her weariness and the crisis at hand, she still smiled at him. It was foolish to worry over that, with everything else going on around them, but he doesn't have so many friends that he's willing to lose track of one just because she's far from home for a time.

**~*~**

Evelyn and Pavus join them in the Chantry in record time, looking far better for the bath. Evelyn's eyes are still highlighted with shadows far too deep, but there's nothing but rest that will take care of that, and at least the hot bath has brought a warm glow to her far-too-pale cheeks. Her hair's still dripping wet, tousled from a quick toweling, though he notices that Pavus does not share the same fate, for all that his hair isn't much shorter than Evelyn's. _Maybe he used magic?_

The two of them are barely through the door before Cullen shoves a plate full of meat pasties in her direction. "Eat," he commands gruffly.

Pavus rolls his eyes. "You know what I said about your manners earlier? I take it back."

Evelyn throws an elbow towards Pavus's ribs, which the magister ducks easily. "Thank you," she says sincerely to Cullen, and takes a large bite, immediately giving a pleased moan. "Mmm, did Flissa bake these fresh?"

"As if I would bring you any less."

Pavus isn't too scrupled not to steal one of the pasties, Cullen notices, but Evelyn steps away from him when she notices, guarding her plate protectively as she comes over to stand next to Cullen. "Here," she says, offering up it up to him, "I'm sure you haven't had supper, either, knowing you."

She's not wrong, but Cullen hasn't been riding hard for three days straight, either. "I'm fine," he says firmly, "and those are for you. _Eat."_

"Yes, Lord Commander, certainly, Lord Commander," she says smartly, but she also allows him to nudge her towards the stool near the war table. He's more than a little worried that she's going to fall over if she doesn't sit down.

Josephine calls order to their meeting with a few sharp raps of her stylus against the age of the table. "All right, people, focus," she says into the ensuing silence. "Lady Evelyn, if we could have your report, please. Leliana's agents sent back only jumbled information."

"Because they couldn't actually get into the meeting," Leliana clarifies pointedly. "Given more warning, I could have done more."

"Not the point, Leliana," Josie says. "Lady Herald?"

Evelyn, still chewing a large bite of food, gestures helplessly. Cassandra makes an amused noise and steps forward.

"I believe I can make a report as well as the Herald," she says. "Finish your supper, Lady Evelyn."

"'kay," Evelyn says indistinctly, and focuses on devouring the pasties while Cassandra speaks.

It's a grim picture that she presents, even to someone that _hasn't_ had experience with the machinations of Tevinter slavers in Kirkwall. A true magister is a greater threat, and one in service to some cult, obsessed with the Breach… Worse still.

And the mages! The mage rebellion was always a political problem as well as a religious one, and the fact that King Alistair offered them sanctuary added another layer of difficulty, but now... Cullen understands how the conflict with the Templars could present a threat so great it seemed insurmountable, but this? Selling themselves to the magisterium out of _fear?_ If this was all the mages could amount to on their own, then truly they should never have left the Chantry.

By the time Cassandra is finished speaking, Evelyn has finished her supper (allowing Pavus to steal a second pasty, which he takes and retreats to a corner to listen) and is sitting quietly on her stool, hands folded in her lap. "I don't think I have much to add," she says, when Josephine prompts her. "I don't think we can afford to leave the entire mage rebellion in the hands of a Tevinter magister, but I think that's probably pretty obvious to everyone else, too."

"So you… don't approve of Fiona's actions, then?" Josephine probes. Evelyn sits up a little straighter from her exhausted slouch and glares at her.

"Of course I don't! Fiona pushed us all to rebellion, forced the decision knowing that it was going to get a lot of good mages killed, and for what? To sell us out at the first sign of trouble? I think it's fucking _despicable,_ but there's nothing I can do to change it. All I know is that there are a lot of good people, some of them still _children_ , who are now, for all intents and purposes, slaves to one of our oldest enemies. They don't deserve their fate because the Grand Enchanter lost her spine."

She's panting lightly when she finishes her speech, glaring impartially at the room at large. Her eyes are glowing faintly, and the ends of her hair are throwing sparks, a loss of control so flagrant that he knows the depth of her distress. This isn't like her, not like her at all.

A quick glance around the room and he winces. Cassandra has her hand on her sword, probably not even aware of it, and even Leliana has palmed on her her daggers. Poor Josephine has drawn back, fear writ clearly on her face. Poor girl's probably never seen an angry mage before, and wasn't expecting this from the cheerful Herald.

Cullen risks his fingers setting his hand on her shoulder, and finds it rigid with anger and stress, but otherwise inert. "Evelyn," he says softly. "I don't think she meant anything by it."

She looks up at him blankly for a moment, and then she slumps and the sparks die out. "Of course she didn't," she says wearily, almost too quiet to be heard. Then she looks to Josephine and bows slightly. "My apologies, Lady Montilyet. I allowed my frustration to get the better of me."

"It's… quite all right," Josephine says faintly. Cullen feels for her, but thinks, very privately, that it's just as well that she's had this wake-up call about mages. It's not all parlor tricks and battlefield heroics. They're dangerous. He trusts Evelyn, has been given no reason not to, but he doesn't fool himself about her capabilities, either. The life of a mage is one of a constant struggle to master an internal flame that will never burn out. "It's a heated subject. We should… take a break for the evening, anyway."

"Yes, quite," Pavus drawls from his corner. He's the only one who didn't react when Evelyn started spilling power, but then, a Tevinter mage would likely be familiar with such demonstrations. And out of all of them, he was of course in the least danger. "Some of us were travelling all the way from Minrathous to get here. I think we could _all_ use a good night's sleep."

"Dorian's right," Evelyn says. She's trying to sound normal, but can't quite get there. "Let's reconvene tomorrow. It's not as if we can just storm the keep. We need a plan."

"Agreed," Cassandra says firmly. It says something of the relationship they have built on the road that she is looking at Evelyn with worry, rather than distrust, even after that display. "Second bell tomorrow, everyone."

Evelyn rises from her stool and escapes almost before Cassandra is done speaking. Pavus looks after her with raised eyebrows. "That girl needs to relieve some stress in the _worst_ way," he says mildly.

"Don't go anywhere, altus," Leliana says over her shoulder. "You and I are going to have a nice little chat." She turns back to Cullen. "Go after her, Commander."

He looks from the open door back to their spymaster. "Me? Surely Cassandra would be…"

"You," Leliana says firmly. "Preferably before she gets too far."

Cullen needs no other invitation, and scrambles out the door after the Herald. He doesn't have to go far, as he finds her leaning against one of the pillars in the Chantry hallway, looking as if she doesn't have the energy to go further.

She looks up when she sees him, and her face falls a little. "I'm sorry for… in there," she says. "Thanks for interrupting."

The last thing he wants is to have her upset at the sight of him, even if it isn't about anything he did. "Who doesn't need a bit of excitement to liven up a long day," he says lightly, but the cloud on her face doesn't lift. He crowds close to her, puts one hand on her elbow. "Come here. Sit down a moment."

She lifts one hand in a futile gesture. "I need to-"

"Sit. Down," he says, and then she follows him docilely enough to a nearby prayer bench, collapsing onto it like a puppet with cut strings. "There," he says, and takes a seat next to her. "Just rest a moment, and then I'll walk you to your quarters."

"I'm not a child that needs looking-after, Cullen."

Not a child, certainly, but surely in need of some looking-after, if today is any guide. "Of course not," he says instead. "You're the fearless Herald. Really, you're looking after _me_ right now. Anyone could jump out at me, and where would I be without you to defend me?"

She sighs and slumps against the back of the bench, her eyes sliding closed. "You're a good man."

The simple sincerity of it hits him right beneath the ribs, and he has to pause a moment to collect himself before he can answer. "I can but try, Lady Herald," he says, and if his voice comes out a little strangled, well, she doesn't seem to notice.

"You know the worst bit of it is?" she says after a moment.

"No, what?"

"I wasn't even a member of the bloody rebellion."

"You _weren't?_ "

"No, though I did travel with them for a time. Didn't really have a choice, with Templars calling for the Right of Annulment all over the place and an Exalted March hanging over our heads. It was pretty much join them in Redcliff, or die."

"Some of the Circle mages stayed in their towers."

"Not in Ostwick," she says. "And not battlemages of my caliber." She speaks with no false modesty, well aware of her talents and the limits she does- and does not- have. "They made that…. abundantly clear when I returned to get my things."

There's a world of pain in her voice, and though he desperately wants to hear that story, he wouldn't touch the sore places of her memory for anything. "If you weren't one of the rebels, then, why were you at the Conclave with them?"

She opens her eyes, lolls her head sideways to meet his gaze. "I told you, I was there for my master," she says. "He was an Aequitarian, and a Knight-Enchanter who'd served with distinction, very well-respected. He wanted to advocate for peace. And Fiona, the other Seniors who followed her… I think they were all ready for peace, after seeing what had happened to their hard-won independence. William was there are a Speaker and I went with him because I was worried someone was going to kill him for it." She laughs bitterly. "Look how well that worked out."

There's grief in her voice, sharp-edged and still fresh, and he wants to reach out to her. "Evelyn…"

"I wasn't a member of the rebellion because I didn't think it was a good idea," she continues angrily, as if she didn't hear him. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm all for reform, but right after the Kirkwall uprising was not the bloody time. It's the one opinion of Vivienne's that we actually share. Everyone was so terrified of blood mages and abominations after Kirkwall that _anything_ we did was going to go badly. After independence was declared, though, there wasn't any choice." She absently traces two fingers over the scar on her cheek, then her hand drops away into her lap once more and she shrugs. "And that lot need someone combat-ready to keep an eye out. Most mages aren't actually well-trained for fighting, you know. And half of them are apprentices, just kids who don't really understand what's happening. I was always good at keeping them entertained in the evenings. Made myself useful."

Cullen remembers Cassandra telling him about Evelyn telling stories to some of the refugee children and his heart squeezes. It's all too easy to picture her among a pack of young, wide-eyed apprentices, spinning tales to keep their minds off the hunger, cold, and fear that must have permeated the camps as they fled to Redcliffe. "You feel like you owe them something."

"Don't I? They're my people, Cullen. I respect the hell out of what you all have built here, and I've given my word to serve the Inquisition to the best of my ability, but I'm still a mage." She spreads her hands: _what can I do?_ "Just because I don't agree with the leadership of the rebellion doesn't mean that I'm going to turn my back on everyone in it. Even if it means that the so-called Herald of Andraste is seen as favoring their cause."

He winces. "I don't think anyone's worried about that," he lies. If he thought about it, then Josephine's almost certainly losing sleep over the issue, but it's not really relevant to the discussion at hand. "You said it yourself. We can't leave them in the hands of a Tevinter cultist, whatever the circumstances. I don't think much of Grand Enchanter Fiona, but even I won't argue that."

"I'm more worried about what happens after," she says in a small voice. "I mean, can you imagine that the Templars would be willing to meet with me after this? If we succeed, we'll be taking in possibly two hundred mages. The Lord Seeker all but spat in my face when we met before. What are the chances that the Inquisition will be able to fulfill its intended purpose and bridge the gap?"

There's no answer he can give her to make her feel better without lying, because she's not wrong. He's only been able to make contact with _one_ Templar, and Ser Barris made it very clear that he was stepping outside of the chain of command to do that much. They know, finally, that the Lord Seeker took the remains of the Order to Therinfall Redoubt, but as it is it would take significant political and military leverage to even enter the keep. Lucius has not been welcoming to Josephine's tentative overtures.

"There was never very much chance that they would work with an order that carries a mage as its face, regardless of what other mages we do or do not take in," he says finally, with a sigh. "As much as I would dearly wish otherwise. Your people aren't the only ones looking for new purpose outside of the Chantry, you know. I may have left the Order behind, but I would have liked to see them move past this petty divide and do something _more_ with themselves."

"I would have liked that, too," she says softly. After a moment, she slouches a little further on the bench, allowing her shoulder to press against his. "I know this is hard on you, too. I don't want you to think that I've forgotten that."

"I would never," he swears, and gives her a little smile, trying to reassure her. _We're good._ "Perhaps the Lord Seeker will come to his senses. And if not, well, it's a matter we can address after we've closed the Breach. Just because the Inquisition was declared in response to the Breach, it doesn't mean that we can't return to its original purpose after its done. There is still a chance."

"I suppose." She sighs, flops one hand kind of half-heartedly. "I really should get to bed, this time."

"I will escort you-"

"No," she says, "No, I think the fresh night air will do me some good."

"If you're sure."

"I am." She nudges her shoulder a little harder against his, then rests her hand over his, on his knee. "I also want to say thank you," she says, not quite meeting his eyes, sincere and awkward with it. "You're… I don't know that I could do this without you. Your counsel, your support. I'm sure I'd be going mad, otherwise."

"I doubt that very much," he says, through a tight throat. Her hand, the one with the mark branded on its palm, is very warm over his, even through his glove.

"I'm not so sure." She ducks her chin. "Do you know how miserable it was, this past month? The whole world is so buggered up, but every few days I got a letter from you and it was… nice. It felt good to know that someone was thinking of me out there."

"Your letters were very welcome as well," he says, low-voiced and sincere. She'll probably never know just how welcome. "Though I suspect my life has been a good sight less stressful than yours, this past month."

Not entirely true, but his bad days are his own to shoulder, not hers. There have been less of them, in recent months, but the pain is sometimes worse than others. And the dreams, of course, are always waiting. He is grateful for their correspondence for more than just the friendship it offered; more than one of his letters was written deep in the middle of the night, when he could not bear to go back to sleep.

"I think that's a pretty low bar," she says dryly. And then she heaves a great sigh and straightens up, away from her slouch against his shoulder. He can't feel her warmth through his armor, but he immediately misses the weight of her body against his. "Thank you for the cloak as well. _Even though you shouldn't have,_ by the way."

"I absolutely should have," he returns. "I'm glad it kept you warm." Then he looks pointedly at her shoulders, bare of anything save her heavy woolen sweater. "Though I'm sure it works better if you wear it."

"I have been, I promise!" She heaves herself to her feet with a grunt, shaking her head absently to settle her hair away from her eyes. "I left it with the laundress for cleaning. I suspect we're going have to ride back out very soon."

He sobers. "I suspect that, as well." He stands up as well, and gives her his now-customary salute. "Get some sleep, then. I'll see you in the morning."

"Hopefully acting less like a bear with a thorn in its paw," she says with a rueful smile. She dips a very slight bow. "Sweet dreams, Cullen."

Ah, if only she knew what an impossibility that is. "And to you." He stands in the door to the Chantry and watches her walk just a little crookedly down the path, making sure that no one lurks about to take her attention this night. She did not accept his escort, but he can watch over her this far, at least. She deserves that much.

**~*~**

The next day, the letter arrives from Magister Alexius, sealing their fate. None of them are particularly happy about the Herald using herself as bait, but no one can think of anything better, either. They cannot leave the mages to Alexius, nor leave a hostile foreign power with ties to whoever destroyed the Conclave camped out practically on their doorstep, and they can't risk the Fereldan army getting to him first. This is the only plan that has a prayer of working.

And so she gathers her scouts, and the mage Pavus to shield them, and Cassandra and Iron Bull to take as "attaches" to her meeting, and she rides off in the middle of the night, trying to beat the royal army to the scene.

After that, there is only waiting.

**~*~**

Leliana's scouts send word nearly as soon as the confrontation is complete. Witnesses of the scene are a bit jumbled- some say Alexius threw a spell at them which was blocked by Pavus, some say the Herald and Pavus disappeared and reappeared a moment later, with some sort of large, swirling vortex. Whatever the specifics, Alexius surrendered immediately, and was handed over into custody of the Fereldan crown after Evelyn-

-and Cullen has to read this section twice-

-offered a full alliance to the rebel mages, in order to absorb them into the Inquisition.

_Alliance!_ Cullen is sympathetic to the plight of the mages, certainly, but neither does he delude himself that they should be trusted with free run of the town. He doesn't think it's just prejudice talking that he believes that there _will_ be instances of blood magic, perhaps even abominations. In such desperate circumstances as these, it's nearly inevitable. If Kirkwall taught him anything, it's that even the strongest-willed of mages will turn to the forbidden when faced with certain doom. And there is doom a'plenty to go around, times like these.

Still, there's little he can do about it now. As Josephine points out, they _cannot_ withdraw their offer of alliance in favor of something more restrictive with the eyes of all Thedas upon them- it would make them appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst. Cullen will simply have to resign himself to their presence, and to ensure that some of his former Templars are briefed on the situation. He doubts it would do _anyone_ any good to have them patrol the mage's quarters as they once did in the Circle, but they _must_ be prepared for the possibility of abominations. Especially with the Veil torn asunder, the damage a single mage could do would be catastrophic if not quickly stopped.

It takes more than a week for Evelyn to return. She has to stay and supervise the removal of her new charges from Redcliffe, as they will trust no one else with the upheaval, and travel back to Haven is slow. She does send ahead a note by raven, after she makes the initial handshake agreement with the monarchs. Unlike her usual missives, written more-or-less at leisure in the evenings and separately to the three of them, this is only the briefest of reports, her exhaustion visible on the page. She doesn't speak of what happened to her, or why Alexius proved so easy to subdue, or _what she was bloody well thinking,_ merely notifies them of the agreement she made with Grand Enchanter Fiona and the few remaining Senior Enchanters. Included is a list of all of the mages coming to join the Inquisition, sorted by College, rank, and age.

Cullen looks at number of children on the list and thinks that he probably should feel sympathy for the plight of the rebellion- and he does, truly, but mostly what he feels is _rage,_ that the mages they now call allies almost brought slavery and ruin onto the heads of the defenseless. It's irrational, to feel this furious, but he looks at the list and thinks of Evelyn's own anger at Fiona, and can't understand how she could bring herself to offer such a thing. He knows that they had to go to the mages, that even if Evelyn had been able to gain the attention of the Templars she still wouldn't have been able to leave her people to be swallowed by Tevinter, but this is too far. Surely even she knows that. Surely she _must._

At the bottom of the report, there's a single line that simply says, _I made the only call I could at the time. We can fight about it when I get back._ The report is for the three of them, but he knows that she wrote that to him.

When she gets back, then. He will simply have to manage his frustration until then.

**~*~**

By the time Evelyn finally makes it back to Haven, Cullen has more or less gotten his anger under control. She made a difficult call, under circumstances he cannot judge without having been there, and Maker knows someone had to make a bloody decision. Still, it's hard to contain his frustration as he gets the mages settled into their new quarters, many of them complaining all the way about the the rustic nature of the accommodations, others frightened and weary and small with it, which makes him even angrier. He's in a foul mood when he returns to meet the others in the war room, his head aching fiercely and his temper testing the edges of his control. Shouting will not, actually, help anything.

He _wants_ to shout, though. He wants to shout even more when he walks into the war room and sees her leaning against a wall next to that mage Pavus, discussing something with him in low voices.

He knows that it's irrational. There's no particular reason to believe that Pavus is being anything but honestly helpful, in his own immensely irritating way, but he still wants to go over there and separate them. He wants her to to turn and smile at him, like she always does, but she's too absorbed in her conversation to even notice him enter.

He clears his throat and shuts the door behind him. Evelyn's gaze snaps to him, then skates away. It's only when he sees the way her body is braced against his expected temper that he remembers why he's angry with her.

"So," he says. It takes real effort to keep his voice neutral, but he manages it, more or less. "I think I speak for all of us when I say that we would appreciate a report of just what happened when you confronted Alexius."

"Oh, Maker, I'm not sure I can even explain," Evelyn sighs. She scrubs a weary hand over her face, and despite his anger, his chest aches with concern for her. It's maddening. "It sounds too absurd."

"We were sent to the future, which was very unpleasant, and then we came back to stop it," Pavus says promptly. Cullen gapes at the man, even as Evelyn glares. "What?"

"Haven't you gotten tired of explaining it like that?"

"My dear, if you'd seen years of research made truth in front of you, you'd be a bit excited about it too."

Cullen finally finds his tongue. "You _what?"_ He steps forward, just half a beat, before he recalls himself and steps back. She folds her arms defensively over her chest. "Are you… all right?"

"I'm fine," she says, then makes eye contact with him for the first time since he walked in the room. Whatever is on his face, it makes her own expression soften briefly. "Really, I am. Dorian got us back."

"How is this even possible?" Josephine demands.

Evelyn shrugs. "I think I'll let the resident expert field this one, since he's feeling so helpful with answers."

"Technically, it's not," Pavus answers smoothly, stroking his mustache. Cullen is beginning to wonder if the smugness is ingrained. "Possible, that is. Alexius and I used to work on slowing and speeding time when he was still my patron, and we had some minor success in that area, but anything more was relegated to the realm of the theoretical."

"It doesn't sound very theoretical to me," Cullen growls.

Pavus spreads his hands wide. "There is a hole in the fabric of reality, Commander. Your very own Herald walked in the Fade and emerged more-or-less sane."

"Thank you so very much," Evelyn says, very dry. Pavus beams.

"You're welcome, my dear. Impossible things are becoming impossible every day, it seems. I believe he was actually trying to remove her from time entirely, so that she never would have gained that mark on her hand, but I was able to block it to some degree and we merely went forward a year, to a time when Alexius's master had succeeded." He tucks his thumbs into his belt loops and gives an artful frown to Leliana. "You were quite a terror, my dear Lady Nightingale. I would not be so eager to cross you."

"That's wise," Leliana says absently, thinking through the ramifications. "You said Alexius had a master. Does that mean that you discovered who was behind the Breach?"

Evelyn and Pavus exchange troubled glances. "He mentioned someone," Evelyn says finally. "He referred to him only as 'The Elder One.' But considering that he's in a Tevinter-based cult…"

"It's probably another magister," Pavus finishes grimly. "Not exactly the outcome I'd hoped for, but once I found out Alexius was involved… Always the most likely."

"So the explosion on top of the Conclave?" Cullen demands. He can actually _feel_ his headache getting worse. It's like a metal spike, driven between his eyes, and even the forgiving light of the oil lamps suddenly seems too much. He grits his teeth and does his best to ignore it. "That was, what, a coincidence?"

"Perhaps merely convenient for this Elder One," Josephine says thoughtfully. "We know from the vision in the Temple of Sacred Ashes that he used Divine Justinia as a sacrifice… If it caused chaos in southern Thedas as well, all to the better."

"The fact that the mountain is full of lyrium likely helped, as well," Pavus adds dryly. "Just saying."

"I will look into it," Leliana says firmly. "But I do want to ask… You say that this Elder One succeeded in the future. Did you acquire any actionable intelligence as to how he did so?"

"Assassinated the Empress Celene and summoned a demon army," Evelyn says. This time it's Pavus who gives her a look. "What?"

"Now who's being succinct?"

"It's not like anyone told us details!" Evelyn snaps, and turns back to them. "Look. I don't know when it happens, or how. I _think_ we have some time, because in that future the Elder One was able to widen the Breach, which accelerated the series of events." A muscle tightens in her jaw. "That is not going to happen in this time. I'm going to make sure of it."

"And thus, we have the mages," Cullen says neutrally. She shifts around to face him, crosses her arms over her chest. Braces for an argument that they both know is coming.

"Yes," she says flatly. "I have no doubt that you're less than happy about my decision, and in truth I don't blame you. I know it's risky-"

"Do you truly?" he interrupts. He knows he should keep his mouth shut, but it comes spilling out anyway. "Have you fully considered the ramifications of this decision? I have seen all-too-well how the tired or frightened may turn to blood magic in desperate times, and these certainly qualify. There _will_ be abominations among them. It is not a question of _if_ but of _when._ And with the Veil torn open, they could be a greater danger than anything that comes out of the Fade now."

"I _do_ know," she snaps back, fists clenched at her side. "You're not the only one who's faced blood mages, _Commander._ " He doesn't flinch from the venom with which she says his title, but by the Maker, it's a near thing. She must see something on his face, however, because she takes a deep breath and visibly forces herself to calm down, flattening her palms against her thighs. "But I don't think you understand the magnitude of what we're asking them to do, either. For a mage to lend their power to another, much less the score or more of them that something like the Breach will require… It can't be forced. It must be done willingly. And it _can't_ be done if we make enemies of them."

It's.... reassuring to know that at least _some_ strain of logical thought went into her decision. And, he has to admit, it was _her decision_ to make. They should not have empowered her with such responsibility if they weren't willing to abide by the results. Maker knows it's always easier to second-guess some else's decision than to make your own.

And, his fears aside, the results are something that _can_ be managed, if they're careful and clever. Surely he has faced worse in the past- and with less capable people to aid him, as well.

"All right," he says, and sighs. "I can understand that. I just wish there was time to consult with us before the decision was made."

She nods shortly. "I wish that, too. But there was a Ferelden army marching up to the front gate and the royals were standing _right there._ I had to do something. I didn't have a lot of time to think."

"It would not have been my decision, but I will not argue that she made one," Cassandra puts in firmly. " _We_ empowered her to do such when we named her our agent. We should not quibble when she did, after all, accomplish exactly what she set out to do."

"The voice of pragmatism speaks!" Pavus puts in cheerfully. "And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments."

Cassandra gives him a haughty look. "I will turn away no willing allies," she says coldly. "Closing the Breach is all that matters."

"That's all well and good," Leliana says mildly, "but if we are truly to attempt the Breach once more… It will take planning. And time, even now that we have the mages."

"True, but I think tomorrow is soon enough to begin," Josephine says, eyeing Evelyn and Cassandra both with some concern. "Why don't you find lodgings for Master Pavus, Lady Herald, and take the rest of the day to refresh yourself? We can meet after breakfast and begin to formulate our plan of attack."

Evelyn blinks, looks from one face to another. "You'd have me help? Even after…" Her gaze finds him and sticks. "You'd want my input?"

Silence falls in the room around him, and Cullen is painfully aware that everyone, even that bloody mage Pavus, is waiting for his reply. Cassandra may not have wanted the mages, but she's not the sort to look backwards. He's the natural sticking point, and it's made worse by his friendship with Evelyn. Her hopeful gaze tugs at him.

He sighs. Even in the depths of his anger, he never doubted for a moment that he would want her anywhere else. "Of course we would. None of this would be possible without you."

"Oh," she says, and then gives him the tiniest of smiles. "That's, um. Good to know."

"Tomorrow," Josephine says firmly. "You three should enjoy a well-deserved afternoon off. Tomorrow is soon enough."

"I won't argue with that," Evelyn says with a hefty sigh. "I'll leave you to it, then." She straightens away from her weary slouch against the wall and heads for the door, only to pause when she passes him. His heart thuds into his throat abruptly, even with her determinedly neutral expression. "Commander, a word?"

He takes a breath and then nods, following her out of the room. Pavus, who had straightened to follow, does them the courtesy of staying put for the moment; as Evelyn proceeds him out the door, he hears Josephine ask politely, "So is this your first visit to the South, Master Pavus?"

"Oh, certainly not, my dear," Pavus drawls in reply, "but certainly the most exciting so far," and then the heavy door swings shut behind him, cutting off whatever else the mage would have said and leaving only the silence of the Chantry hall between him and Evelyn.

She doesn't make him wait for it, just swings around, crosses her arms over her chest again. "So. That got a little heated, in there."

It's easier than he might have expected, given the depth of their disagreement, but he thinks of her hopeful look in the war room moments ago, meets her steady gaze now. She doesn't want to be at odds any more than he does, he thinks.

"I apologize for that." She's undeserving of his anger, truthfully. He doesn't agree with every decision Leliana or Josephine makes, either, but he trusts them to know their business and make the right call. In his defense, this particular subject is a well-earned sore spot. "I should have kept my temper."

"You weren't the only one getting hot under the collar," she admits readily enough, surprising him a little in spite of himself. "I'm good if you are."

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. He hadn't thought that it could be this easy, but he's not complaining. Sunlight comes in through the open doors but doesn't reach this far back, and the relative darkness of the empty Chantry hall helps as well, easing the spike of his headache. The relief of both the pain and the friction between them is a palpable weight from the back of his neck, where he keeps his stress.

"I'm good," he says, and has never meant it so true.

She gives a little sigh of satisfaction. "Excellent. I'd hate to be fighting with you if I can help it."

"It's not my favorite thing to do, either," he says, perhaps a little too fervently. She doesn't seem to notice, only grins up at him.

"Look, I really do need to find Dorian some quarters, preferably somewhere where no one will try to knife him in his sleep, but… Want to get a drink later? My treat, this time. Maker knows I'll likely have to ride out again before too long, and it's been so long since we've had the chance, I'd hate to miss it."

He blinks at her for a moment. After the argument, it didn't occur to him that she'd still want...

"That sounds perfect," he says, and rubs his hand over his jaw. Maker, he really should shave at some point, the wispy stubble is just embarrassing. "After a day like this, I could really use a pint or two myself."

"I look forward to hearing about it," she says. She sticks her hands in her pockets and dips forward in a little half-bow. "I'll see you at supper, then."

"Until then, Lady Herald."

She goes back into the war room to retrieve her new recruit, and he takes himself away to go through the duty rosters. He still has a lingering headache, spiking back up when he steps out into the sunlight, and he still scowls when he looks across the square to see the little huddle of mage tents, but… It's better. It's a little bit of balance back into his world, the two of them being right again. And if there's a part of him that's a little more relieved than he wants to admit, knowing that she still wants something to do with him, well, that's between him and the Maker.


	5. Chapter 5

An early darkness is falling when Cullen finally manages to wrap up his work, probably brought on by the gathering storm clouds. Cullen eyes them with an experienced eye as he meanders up the path to the tavern, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Could be rain later, or sleet, but considering the time of year and the crisp bite of the air he's willing to bet that it's snow. Harvestmere's a bit early for first snow of the year in the rest of Ferelden, but this close to the foot of the Frostbacks, Cullen's actually a little surprised that it's held off this long.

The windows of the builds glow warm and inviting as he makes his way up the path, and a few of his off-duty men nod respectfully to him as they pass. He nods back, politely, ducking his chin a little to huddle into the warmth of his collar. Come true winter he'll grow resentful of the cold- he always does, eventually- but right now he sort of enjoys it. The air in his lungs is so crisp and clear, and he loves the feeling of walking in from the outside chill to a heated room, the way the warmth just seeps slowly into his joints. Flissa's keeping the tavern nice and warm, the heat from dozens of close-packed bodies adding to the merrily crackling fire, and the cheerful din of everyone's voices envelops him as he closes the door behind him.

It's packed enough that for a moment he worries he won't be able to find a table, but after a moment of glancing around he sees Evelyn waving him over from the very back corner. She looks almost as awkwardly happy to see him as he feels to see her, and he can't quite contain his smile as he shoulders his way through the crowd to join her, pulling off his gloves and shoving them in his pocket as he goes.

"Oh good, you made it," she says, when he takes the seat across from her. She's out of armor and wearing her usual breeches, with a heavy woolen sweater swallowing her lean frame. The thick dark fur of the cloak he gave her is just barely visible behind her, draped over the back of her chair, and it makes him feel foolishly pleased to see it. "The place is packed tonight. They're saying it's going to snow."

"They're likely right." He rolls his shoulders, twists his neck and releases a symphony of pops and crackles from joints long ill-used. "Maker, it's been a long day."

"I don't doubt it for a moment." She wraps her hands around her mug, warming her fingers. He's not sure quite what she has in there, but it's steaming gently and smells like honey and spirits. "I know absorbing more than two hundred mages into the Inquisition wasn't on your preferred list of things to be doing today. I am sorry for making extra work for you, at least."

"Ah, it's fine." And at least for right now, it _is_ fine. He can worry about abominations again tomorrow. "What's life without a few challenges?"

She makes a face. "I would have helped, except I… know nothing that would actually be helpful. Sorry."

"I would hardly have accepted regardless. You've had a very long few days, and it's not your responsibility."

"Well, at least a little bit my responsibility."

He makes a wordless noise of dissent, not really wanting to open that can of worms at the moment. "Did you get some rest, at least?"

"A couple hours, earlier," she says with a sigh. "I wasn't intending on it, but after I got Dorian settled I went back to change out of my armor and I swear, I just sat down on the bed for a moment…"

"It was well-deserved, and clearly badly needed."

He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and Evelyn doesn't fail to pick up the accidental implication. "I think think I should be offended," she says archly.

"No, I, um." How does he always put his foot in it? Every single bloody time? "I didn't mean to imply anything about… anything, only that if you fell asleep so quickly you must have…"

He trails off, narrowing his eyes as he sees her biting her lip. "...been taking the piss again," he finishes wryly. "I suppose you find me an easy mark."

"You are just too terribly fun to tease, I'm sorry." She takes a sip of her beverage and hides her smile behind the rim of the mug, but he can see the dimples threatening to pop out at the corners of her mouth. "I can try to restrain myself, if it bothers you."

"No, I live to entertain you," he sighs. Her smiles spreads wider.

"A bold claim indeed, serrah."

He's trying to figure out if he wants to escalate the teasing another level or back down before it gets too awkward when Flissa appears at his elbow. "Evenin', love," she says, wiping the table clear of a few stray crumbs left over from the previous occupants. "It's shaping up to be a cold one tonight, and no mistake. You want your usual?"

The thought of a cold draught of ale is singularly unappealing at the moment, and he nods across the table to Evelyn. "I'll have whatever she's having."

"Right you are, dear. Either of you thinking of supper?"

"I'm famished," Evelyn tells him. "I think I may have slept through lunch. You?"

"And two plates of whatever you have hot," Cullen tells Flissa.

"We've a good beef and barley stew going in the back."

"Excellent. Two plates of that."

"Right you are, love." Flissa bustles away, and Cullen peers across the table at Evelyn's mug.

"What did I just order, if I might ask?"

"Hot toddy." She tips it slightly so that he can see the pale, cloudy contents. "Boiling water, honey, spices, dried fruit… and a great deal of whiskey," she says with a grin. "Just the thing for cold, wet weather. I've been keeping my lungs clear from sheer force of will, at this point, and I need all the help I can get."

He frowns. "Have you been to see a healer?"

"Well, I have been travelling with Solas," she says. "And I'm a middling-fair herbalist. I'm all right, really, just not quite used to this sort of cold. It's not like this in the North. It's this sort of…"

"Smothering, humid wet that settles into the bones?" he finishes wryly. "I did spend eight years in Kirkwall. Give me the clean chill of snow any day."

"I do believe you're about to get your wish, if the weather-augurs are anything to go by." She stretches out a foot and nudges the toe of his boot with her own. His heart thumps an extra beat at the lazy, easy smile on her face. Maker, he didn't even realize just how worried he was that things would be awkward between them, until his fears are being put to rest. "Bet you're glad to be back home."

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. "You know, I actually am," he admits. "When I left Ferelden before, I wasn't sorry to go, and I didn't expect to come back. I certainly never expected these circumstances- the Divine's murder, the Breach… nothing but chaos."

She cocks her head. "That doesn't sound glad to be back."

He chuckles. "I suppose it doesn't, does it? Still, though, while most of my family is elsewhere now and I haven't had much contact with them since I returned, I grew up nearly due south of here, as the crow flies. Haven is a little further into the mountains than Honnleath, but not by much. This feels like home."

"I'm glad to hear it. Although sorry to hear about your family. Are you… not close, or…?"

He eyes her. "Willing to risk the same answers yourself?"

She looks indecisive. "How about I get back to you later on that one?" she says finally.

"Fair enough." He knows that she told Josephine not to bother contacting her family, so there's almost certainly some kind of conflict there. Considering her background, he'd be surprised if there wasn't.

Honestly, he's not sure he's ever met a mage that had a good relationship with their family, save perhaps the Champion and her brother. Even then, there was… tension, of a sort that was difficult for even a casual acquaintance of Carver's to miss, but the lad was always entirely loyal to his sister. Even when the rumor of Hawke's apostasy grew serious enough to break through Varric's bribes, Carver was always entirely dismissive, lying with an agility that nobody would have credited him. Then again, he'd been doing it for years.

Then again, the Hawkes were always clannish to a fault. Hawke the elder was known throughout the entire city-state for her protectiveness over her family, both those born into it by blood and the motley collection of associates she took under her wing over the years. She challenged the bloody Arishok to single combat to save the life of a single pirate. Their family is… perhaps not the most representative example. Hawke would have burned down the world to save her people, and her brother was no different. Very few people can claim family like that.

Very few _people_ can claim _anyone_ like that in their lives. He wonders what it's like, to have someone care for you to that degree. It must be nice.

Flissa arrives with his drink, drawing himself out of the wistful turn to his thoughts, and he thanks her, taking a sip and letting the flavor linger on his tongue. When he swallows, the burn of the whiskey warms him right down to his belly.

He looks at his mug with new appreciation, and Evelyn laughs, not unkindly. "Good, right? Just what the doctor ordered."

"I may just be a convert," he agrees. Silence spools between them, not uncomfortably, as they both sip their drinks in piece for a minute, and then he sets his down and folds his arms on the table. It's been bothering him since this morning, and he has to know. "Evelyn. I have to ask."

"Where were you in the future I saw?"

He leans back a little, involuntarily. "How'd you…"

She smiles ruefully. "It's what I would want to know, if the situations were reversed." She wraps her hands a little more firmly around her mug, looks down at its contents so that she's no longer meeting his gaze. "I'm not entirely sure what happened to you. Died, probably, like everyone else. It wasn't a fun future."

"No, I imagine not." And now she's lost the warmth on her face, lost in thought, and that was his doing. "I apologize. I shouldn't have brought up bad memories."

"Bad memories are all I have from that little trip," she says ruefully. "Well, bad memories, two hundred mages, and a new friend, so… It could have been worse, truly. And it wasn't as if any of it actually happened, anyway."

Something about the way she says it- wounded, defensive, talking to herself as much as anything- strikes a chord with him. Their circumstances were not entirely similar- for one thing, almost all of his comrades _did_ die, and there was no magical reset that would bring them back- but he knows all too well how hard it can be to convince yourself that your own memories are playing you false. He managed to find some strength, eventually, in the fact that they'd never truly broken him, and then when that no longer sufficed, he found resolve in the knowledge that they _had_ broken him for a time, but his life still continued.

He spoke more truly than he yet knew, when he told Cassandra that he and Evelyn had something in common.

"That doesn't meant that it doesn't feel real to you," he says.

She looks at him with such startlement he's sure that she thinks him to be reading her mind. "I…. Yes," she admits, quietly. "It still feels real to me. It's not just theoretical to me anymore. I saw things- saw people, saw _friends_ that-" She looks back down at her hands. The left she flexes tightly against the warmth of the mug; though he can't see the mark on her palm, he knows that she's thinking about it. "Cassandra and Iron Bull were still there, you know, not just Leliana. Apparently this 'Elder One' knows how to grow Red Lyrium out of living hosts. Cassandra _cried_ when she saw me again."

Cullen flinches, and she nods seriously. "Yes. I know. And Leliana… he was cutting pieces from her, giving them to his son to try to keep away the darkspawn taint that was killing him, then healing her so that he could do it again. Her face was… a ruin. Maker only knows what happened to the rest of her." She closes her eyes, slumps forward and buries her face in her hands in a moment of total vulnerability that threatens to close his throat. "Sweet Andraste, I'm going to see it in my nightmares."

"Evelyn," he says helplessly. He wants to reach out to her, offer her the animal comfort of warmth and touch, but he doesn't know if she'd welcome it. The inches of distance between them might as well be miles. Living through this himself, it seems, leaves him inadequate to help her now, as much as he might wish otherwise. "You're here now," he says finally.

"No, I know," she says, and scrubs her hands over her face. "It's all right," she insists, and straightens again. The smile that she gives him is real enough, though on the wobbly side. " _I'll_ be all right. I just need… a little more time."

"You'll get it," he promises rashly, knowing even as he speaks that he's probably lying but unable to stop himself anyway.

"You can't know that," she says, honest as always. "But it's sweet of you to say so."

He clears his throat. "Well, I can but try," he says, trying to keep his voice light. He suspects that she'll want to lead their conversation back to easier topics, and from the grateful look she gives him, she's not wrong. "At least you should be able to sleep well," he continues, nodding at her mug, "with that and some of Flissa's good stew in your belly. And I can and will personally ensure that none will knock your door until you wake up yourself. You deserve that at the very least."

"Ah, that offer I _will_ take," she says a little ruefully. She gestures at her face. "I'm sure the circles under my eyes are miles deep, by now. Alas, a lady needs her beauty sleep."

He obediently steals a glance at her, then immediately looks away again. She does look tired, it's true, and a little too thin as always, but the warmth of the tavern has painted a flush on her pale cheeks, and her smile has grown a bit more relaxed, inviting him to share the joke. She's not the loveliest woman in Haven, perhaps, but she _is_ quite pretty, and all the more so when she smiles. Her ridiculously blue eyes are warm and friendly, the snub of her nose with its small scuff of a scar softening the spare lines of her face. The scar down her cheek that could have marred her looks instead just makes her seem distinguished, accentuating the sharp lines of her cheekbones, leading the eye to the full curve of her lower lip.

"You're fine," he says gruffly, and clears his throat. "So. You got Magister Pavus all set and settled, did you?"

There's a little pause, but when he looks back at her, wondering if he's said something amiss, she's smiling easily enough. "He's not a magister, as he's all-too-happy to inform anyone who says it aloud," she says. "Apparently anyone who thinks that all mages from Tevinter are magisters are merely Southern barbarians who don't know any better."

"Oh, is that so." Her mimicry of Pavus's arch tone is remarkably on-point. "What is he, then?"

"An _altus,_ he says. Apparently it's what the rich ones are called. Very good breeding, has our Dorian."

"And all too happy to advertise the fact," Cullen says dryly. He startles her into a chortle of laughter.

"Do you know, one of the first things I said to him was that he needed to stop talking like he was waiting for applause?" She shrugs. "He can grandstand all he likes, as long as he gets the job done. So far, his performance has been fairly impeccable."

Her tone is faintly mocking, but there's something warm underneath. "Don't lie to me, I know full well that you like him," Cullen says. She makes a face of mock affront, all offended dignity, and he snorts at her playacting. "You do! You _like_ his grandstanding. You called him your friend just a few minutes ago."

"Well don't tell _him_ that, for Maker's sake," Evelyn sighs, but her voice is fond. "His head is certainly swelled enough as it is."

Cullen has a peculiar moment of what can only be described as _jealousy._ It's absurd, of course. He'll likely never feel over-fond of the man, but he does believe, now, that Pavus intends no harm to Evelyn or her comrades. He seems to be an _idealist,_ as ridiculous a trait as that might be to find in a Tevinter, and he certainly does seem fairly fond of Evelyn. And Cullen can't deny that their shared experience with the future must have been a bonding experience for the two of them, as traumatic circumstances often are.

He just… doesn't like Pavus, and doesn't like the look of affection on her face as she speaks of him. There's something soft and intimate there, and Cullen is monstrously, selfishly displeased that she doesn't look like that when she's speaking to him. It makes him a terrible person, he knows, but he can't seem to help it.

"Your secret is safe with me," is all he says, though, and then their food arrives, relieving him of the need to add anything else.

"Everyone good?" Flissa asks, surveying the table with satisfaction. Cullen's mug is still mostly full, but he nods across the table to Evelyn's, which is mostly empty.

"Another for the Herald, I think."

She puts her hand over the top of the mug. "Oh, I shouldn't," she says. "I don't have much of a head for spirits, and this is my second."

"Never tell me that a battlemage like yourself can't hold your drink," Cullen says, grinning when she scowls at him. "Don't worry about it. You're just down the road from your quarters, and I'll walk you myself if you're that worried."

"I'm not worried about walking home, Cullen. It's just… generally not a good idea for mages to get drunk."

"I'll take responsibility if you set any of the curtains on fire," Cullen says very seriously, hiding a smile, and nods to Flissa. The barkeep is no fool, and takes herself off to brew up a refill before Evelyn can object any further.

The Lady Herald herself glares at him. "I do _not_ set the curtains on fire."

"Good, then you're fine." He takes up a large spoonful of soup and immediately hisses as it scalds his tongue. "Hot," he manages.

Evelyn's laughing at him from behind her hand, not covering it very well. "I have some very important advice for you," she says seriously. He rolls his eyes, knowing what's coming.

"What kind of advice is that, Evelyn?"

"Your food is hot. Don't gulp it."

"Very helpful," he sighs. She pointedly blows on the surface of her own spoonful, cooling it safely before taking a careful bite. He follows suit, and is rewarded for his patience with the taste of Flissa's marvelous cooking rather than burning pain.

They focus on eating for a time, and then stay for another hour or so afterwards, nursing their drinks and talking a bit. Sera joins them for a time, after Evelyn flags Flissa down and sends a drink over to the rogue, and Cullen finds that he doesn't even mind the intrusion overmuch, though he's not entirely sure what Sera is even talking about half the time. When Iron Bull comes stumping in with his Chargers in tow, however, he's pretty sure that it's time to draw the line.

"Well, I think I'm going to head out before I get caught up in all the fun," he says dryly, taking a fast gulp of the last of his drink and setting the mug back down on the table. It's his third, and he's feeling warm and flushed from the liquor. In truth, he doesn't have much a head for it, either, used to ale in moderation, but at least he's more likely to get some rest tonight. It's a cure he's wary of using too often, but drinking with a friend isn't the same as drinking to sleep, and he's willing enough to indulge every once in a while. "I believe I offered you an escort to your quarters, but if you'd rather stay and join the Chargers, I'll take my leave now."

He's mostly joking, not really expecting her to say yes, but to his surprise, she stands and gathers her cloak off the back of her chair. "I'll take you up on that offer, actually," she says. "I've seen the Bull drink, and I have _no_ need to get caught up in that and a great deal of need for a good night's sleep. Let me just settle up with Flissa and I'll be right there."

"Aww, leavin' so soon, Lady Herald?" Sera complains, reaching out to snag the edge of Evelyn's sleeve in her fingers. "But the fun's just gettin' started."

Evelyn snorts and reaches out to give her shoulder a squeeze. "I suspect you'll have plenty of fun without me," she says dryly. "Go drink with Bull. I think you'll like his men, and Maker knows they're generous with the ale."

"Free booze, say no more," Sera says, and lunges up to plant a smacking kiss on Evelyn's cheek before literally skipping over to Bull. Evelyn shakes her head fondly and shoos him off towards the door.

"Go on, I'll be right out."

Once outside, he discovers that the weather-augurs were absolutely right, and the snow is falling thick and fast, an inch or so already accumulated on the pathway. He hastily pulls out his gloves and puts them on, flexing his fingers to warm them after the brief exposure to chill, and then stands there for a moment, just looking. The tavern is situated near the top of the hill, and from here he can look out and see almost the entire town, the occasional soft glow of lantern-light punctuating the hazy snow-filled dark. It looks like something out of a Firstday picture-book.

The door beside him swings open, spilling out a brief spike of noise, and then Evelyn is beside him, hastily swirling her cloak over her shoulders and doing up the catch at the throat. "I didn't expect it to be snowing this soon!" she exclaims, wrapping the cloth more tightly around herself. "That's going to be annoying tomorrow, I'm sure, but… Maker, just _look_ at it."

"I know," he says, and grins. It's unexpectedly pleasurable, seeing her wear his gift. The ends of her short hair blend into the dark fur around the collar, and it lends a ferocity to her sharp-boned, pretty face. "Just as well you've an escort, then, with four drinks in your belly and snow on the ground."

"I'd probably break my neck," she agrees. "Good thing you're here."

Something about the way she says it makes him swallow hard. "Good thing," he says, a little hoarsely, and then on some long-forgotten instinct he offers his elbow. "Shall we?"

The look of surprised delight that she gives him makes it worth it, and she happily wraps her gloved fingers around his forearm. "Let's," she says, and they set off down the path, more-or-less steadily.

They say little as they walk, both of them lost in thought and appreciating the snow-softened landscape, but her quarters are, after all, not so very far from the tavern, and they fetch up to her door before too long. "And here you are, m'lady," he says, relinquishing her hand with a playful little bow. "As promised."

She dimples up at him, steps a little closer. "My thanks, serrah," she says. "You're a true gentleman."

"I can think of many who would say otherwise."

"Yes, but their opinions don't matter."

It's only when he smiles down at her in return that he realizes how close the two of them are still standing. The toes of her boots are almost touching his, and her arms, wrapped warmly around her middle, nearly brush the plate covering his belly. He can almost feel her breath on his throat.

He looks down at her, her hair falling carelessly into her eyes, the ravenswing sweep of it dotted with slowly-melting flakes of snow. Her lyrium-blue eyes, peering up at him with slightly hazy pleasure. The slight flush that drink and the cold has brought to her cheek, the pink curve of her lips.

 _I could kiss her,_ he thinks distantly.

It should be a surprise. He's never thought of such a thing, not even when they flirted, not even when he was admiring the tight fit of her fighting leathers, not even when she teased him about _Templar vows of celibacy_ till he was squirming and wondering why in the Maker's name she could possibly want to know. And yet it doesn't feel surprising at all. It feels inevitable, like he's been edging closer to this truth for longer than he can imagine. It feels like there's a hook under his breastbone, pulling him closer to her, like she's slowly taken the gravity from the world and he just, somehow.... didn't notice.

He doesn't just want to kiss her. He wants to press her right back against the bloody door, cover her body with his, and take her mouth like something straight out of a trashy romance serial. He's had affairs before, attractions consummated and not, but he's never wanted something quite as badly as he wants to kiss her, right now.

And then sanity reasserts itself.

She's the _Herald._ He may have his personal doubts about the veracity of her religious status, but as far as the world is concerned, she speaks for the Maker's Bride herself. She bears their cause into the field and carries it out at great personal risk and sacrifice to herself. She's just been through incredibly stressful and traumatic circumstances, and somehow, despite their argument, she _still_ wants to call him her friend. And he's standing there thinking about kissing her.

_This is terrible._

The silence must have stretched on too long while he spun through his panicked internal monologue, because her expression grows faintly concerned. "Cullen? You seem a little… lost in thought."

"I'm fine," he says, hopefully not too brusque. He tries out a smile and finds it fits well enough on his face. "Just the drink, likely."

She grins back easily enough, so she must not have noticed anything else amiss. "And this coming from a man who was teasing _me_ about holding my liquor."

"As you may have noticed, I'm much better at giving advice than following it," he says dryly. She huffs a laugh and steps away. He wants to reach out and pull her back, but folds his hands behind his back instead so he can't do something terribly stupid.

"Well, this time I think we should both follow our _own_ advice and get some rest tonight," she says, pulling a key out of her pocket and unlocking the door to her quarters. "I should be able to sleep fairly soundly tonight, thanks to you."

"It was _your_ idea to go to the tavern," he points out.

"So it was! Ah, well, then both of us should be glad of my excellent foresight."

"I shall be eternally grateful," he says dryly. She gets the door unlocked and then steps into the doorway, the hazy light of a nearby lantern just barely lighting her face with warm gold. "I wish you good dreams."

Her expression goes soft in a way that hooks him, right in his belly. He wants so badly to step forward, to crowd close once more and _take_ what he wants… But of course, she hasn't actually offered it. It just feels like she has, because he wants it so much.

Maker, he's in so much trouble.

"And to you as well," she says warmly, and wiggles her gloved fingers in a tiny wave. "I'll see you in the morning."

He inclines his upper body in the barest sketch of a bow. "Tomorrow, then."

She shuts the door, finally, finally, and he's able to unstick his feet from the ground and walk away, though it takes some force of will. It's fine, he tells himself. It's most likely just the drink. He'll seek his bed, and get some much-needed rest, and this will be easier in the morning. He's had affections for comrades before, and they've always faded away soon enough, once he got some perspective and realized what a lunkhead he was being. This is sure to be the same.

He spots one of the patrolling guards as he makes his way to his quarters, and, remembering his promise earlier to Evelyn, flags the man down. "The Lady Herald isn't to be disturbed in the morning except in case of dire emergency," he tells him. "Pass the word along at shift change. I don't care if the Lady Seeker herself wants to knock on the door. The Herald needs her rest."

"Yes, ser," the guard says, saluting smartly, and Cullen nods to him.

"Good man."

In his own quarters he takes the time to build and start a fire, fumbling a little with the flint in his drink-clumsy fingers but knowing that he'll regret waking up cold in the morning more. If Evelyn was here, she could just wave her hands and- No, he's not thinking about it. Once the hearth is full of warm, crackling flame, he sheds his boots and armor and curls up under his furs still fully dressed, too chilled to strip down to his smalls.

It's probably just projection, he tells himself. He's done things he's not proud of, had people use his own ruin to guide him to do wrong in the name of safety and piety, but he has a chance to atone. He has a cause worth fighting for- and Evelyn, now, is no small part of that cause. This affection, this foolish _crush_ he feels, it's likely just as much about what she represents as it is for the woman herself. She's a good friend, possibly the best he's had since the Ferelden Circle fell, but it can't be anything more.

Even he isn't _that_ much of a fool.

**~*~**

The next morning he has a bit of a head from the liquor, but his dire attraction to Evelyn seems to have faded a little in the harsh morning sunlight, thank the Maker. He's more than a little embarrassed by the force of his desire the night before, but at least he can blame it on the whiskey. He still feels… something more than simple friendship, all right, he can admit it, but she's quite attractive and she's been a great friend to him these past few months, so that's not really so surprising. It's nothing he hasn't managed before, when he's had such affections for comrades. Solona was the worst of it, of course, when he was still a lad, but there have been others, fellow Templars and soldiers he's served with other the years. It always passes.

Evelyn comes yawning into the war room a few hours past dawn, snowflakes still melting in her hair and a little flushed from the cold, but she looks better for the rest. If he blushes a little at her tousled hair or the sleepy cant to her eyes, well, nobody seems to notice, so he can't say it matters overmuch.

She's also bearing a plate with honey-drizzled bread, which she thrusts in his direction when she comes through the door. "I'm guessing you didn't eat breakfast," she says.

Leliana, perched on a stool at the opposite corner of the war table, snorts to herself as she finishes scratching out a quick missive to one of her people. "How well you know our Commander, Herald."

He takes the plate, a little hesitantly, and finds a fork already perched on the side of the plate. "How'd you know?"

"Call it an educated guess," she says with a smile. "And before you say anything, _I_ already ate this morning. This is all yours."

"...all right," he says, and sets to his breakfast, finding himself famished. Sometimes a hangover suppresses his appetite but sometimes it enhances it; this is obviously one of the latter times. Maker, he's starving.

Josephine comes in a few minutes later, as he's just polishing off the rest of the plate, and hides a small smile when she sees him. "Let me guess. Evelyn brought it."

"Just returning the favor," Evelyn says airily. She's been pouring over the table, making considering little _hmm_ noises at some of the troop placements. Cullen rather suspects that he's going to be sending some letters of his own once they're done the meeting. "Well, if everyone's here, we should probably work out what we plan to do next."

"Well, _I_ need to do some damage control," Josephine puts in firmly, before anyone else can answer. "Not that I think the addition of the mages is a bad thing- quite the opposite- but I was not expecting that it would be done so quickly, nor under such dubious circumstances. We're going to be fielding rumors. A lot of rumors, and most of them somewhat less than complimentary."

"That's _always_ true, Josie," Leliana says affectionately. "Personally, I think it's a unique opportunity. If you think about it, this solves far more problems for the Fereldens than it causes. First, we've returned Redcliffe Castle to Arl Teagan, _without_ Alistair having to lose troops storming his own damn castle. Second, we've taken the mages out from under Tevinter control, and expelled a hostile force from Ferelden borders. Third, by turning Magister Alexius over to Ferelden custody, Alistair gets to make it look like all of that was _his_ doing."

"And fourth, he doesn't have to deal with the mages anymore," Cullen adds dryly. "I imagine the Val Royeaux was giving him a headache over that."

"Almost certainly," Josephine says. "Hmm. I could certainly make that work for us, yes. Leliana, you knew King Alistair before he was crowned. Do you think he'd be willing to make a more formal declaration of alliance, in light of recent events?"

"I think so, yes," Leliana says. "He's not much of one for politicking, poor lad- and he's a Warden, for all that the Order relinquished any official claim on him when he ascended the throne. He understands better than most what we're trying to do here. Queen Anora, however, will likely be more difficult to convince. She's the one we have to worry about. Was she there, in Redcliffe?"

Evelyn nods. "She didn't seem any happier with Fiona than the King, though she seemed pleasant enough when I spoke with them. I can't claim your close personal friendship with the crown," she adds with a wry tilt of her chin, "but I think she'd be willing. She struck me as a pragmatist."

"Yes, that's certainly one word to describe her," Leliana says dryly. "Josie, can you work with that?"

"Some ambassador I'd be if I couldn't," Josephine says waspishly. "There remains the problem of Orlais, however. They've always had a much greater concentration of both mages _and_ Templars, and with the recent upheaval in the Chantry, the court will be positively shrieking over this newest development."

"Use Vivienne," Evelyn says. Everyone turns slowly to stare at her. "Maker, don't look at me like that. I know we're not the closest of friends, but that doesn't mean I don't respect her, or her position. More importantly, she is, as she likes to proclaim, the _last loyal mage_ in Thedas, and the only remaining _legal_ First Enchanter."

"I… don't think the mages would accept her as their leader," Leliana says cautiously.

"Oh, I'm not saying we _actually_ put her in charge," Evelyn says hastily. "Maker, can you imagine? We'd have another revolt on our hands within the week. No, _that_ wouldn't do, but she doesn't have to actually be given the position for her name to carry weight."

Josephine starts to smile widely as the idea starts to sink in. "Merely the _implication_ of it, in the right ears, would do much to defray the anxieties of some of the court," she says smugly. "Oh, Evelyn, what an excellent idea, truly."

"Yes, you shown quite the proficiency at how the Game is played," Leliana adds, with a calculating look. "I hadn't considered that you'd be so well-educated in its intricacies."

"Don't fool yourselves, it was just a single suggestion," Evelyn says with a grimace. "All of Mother's lectures were bound to turn up something useful eventually. I'm still much better at military matters than political."

"Nevertheless, you've given me an excellent idea and I thank you," Josephine says. "Well, that's one of our worries that I can handle. As well, I can aid us by procuring more lyrium. We already have a contract to supply our former Templars, but I suspect that my friend in Orzammar would be happy to increase the shipment, as long as we have the coin. Perhaps a fortnight?"

"It will take at least that long to drill the mages," Evelyn says. "This sort of thing isn't generally taught in the Circle. Cullen? How fare your soldiers?"

"Ready as always, but there _is_ an issue that I would like to see resolved, if we are taking some time before our attempt at the Breach," he replies, glad to be back onto matters to which he actually has some input. "Some of Leliana's people have been following up on the leads you found in the bandit fortress, and we think we've located the source of the red lyrium mining in the Hinterlands. A Carta operation is working out of Valamar."

"Valamar?"

Sometimes he forgets that not _everyone_ grew up around here. "It's an old, cut-off entrance to the Deep Roads," he explains. "Not really well-known, and the arl's men used to have patrols to keep stragglers away from it since there's always a chance of darkspawn, but with the conflict it seems some enterprising Carta managed to set up a tidy operation there. They were the ones working with the mercenaries, to keep travelers off the road where their work might be discovered."

"That's rather clever, if despicable," Evelyn says. "Hmm, a Deep Roads entrance? They're likely well-fortified. I can take the Chargers with me, see if we can't crack their defenses and clean up their operation." She grimaces. "The less red lyrium in this world, the better."

"I agree wholeheartedly. I'm not over-enthusiastic about having a Carta foothold on our backdoor, either, regardless of their operation. The red lyrium merely makes it more pressing."

"I think I can work with this, as well," Josephine adds thoughtfully. She brushes the end of her quill against her clipboard, lips pursed. "Varric has some friends in the Carta that we can exploit for our gain. If you can take their leaders alive, I believe we could ransom them back to the Carta for some substantial favors."

Evelyn frowns. "I'm all about spreading influence, but red lyrium is serious. I don't like the idea of trading back people who know about it to a massive criminal organization."

"The cat's rather out of the bag on that front, I'm afraid," Leliana says apologetically. "That being said, I do happen to think that you should take them alive, as well, but I would prefer that our own agents interrogate them. I would like very much to know how they came to discover- or even possibly _start-_ a vein of red lyrium there, and I want to know how they're spreading it."

"Valid points," Cullen is forced to admit. "As long as the operation is closed, I don't care what happens to the leaders."

Evelyn sigs. "Let's see if we can actually manage to take any of them first, and then we'll figure out what to do with them." She peers down at the table. "Any other tasks for me?"

"Well, if you're taking the time…" Leliana says, a little reluctantly. Evelyn peers at her.

"Yes?"

"There _is_ a cult I would like you to investigate, if you can."

There is a small, pregnant pause. "A… cult?" Evelyn finally says, delicately. "What… sort of cult?"

"They think that the Breach is evidence that the Chant of Light is a failure, that the rifts are calling the faithful back to Maker's side." Their silence must seem damning, because she grimaces and adds hastily, "I know, it's a bit terrible, but a number of high-ranking or well-connected people have gone to join them. The sort of people that we could use."

"And you think that they'll just, what, swear fealty to me? I don't think it's that easy."

"It worked for the Blades of Hessarian," Cullen can't help but point out. She gives him a wry look.

"I think those were somewhat special circumstances."

"So are these," Leliana says. "I know it seems wrong, but if you, the Herald of Andraste, were to make a demonstration to these people…" She trails off as Evelyn gives her a slit-eyed look. "What?"

"I am not going to lie to these people and say I'm the Herald," she says. "People can believe what they want, and Maker knows I'm not going to try to stop you from encouraging the rumors because I don't fancy another uphill battle, but I've made it very clear to any number of Chantry clerics that I _don't_ consider myself the Herald of Andraste. I'm not going to turn around and do the opposite now, just because you think some poor, deluded fools could be more easily manipulated."

"I didn't mean-" Leliana begins, but Evelyn waves her silent.

"I know you didn't. But quite aside from my _personal_ feelings on the matter, it's also a politically foolish risk for little gain. We're not the only ones who have a spy network, I'm sure. And I can't risk word getting back to _anyone_ that I'm claiming to be Herald. Humble sincerity is about the only thing I have going for me in certain circles." She seems to notice the fierceness of her speech and throttles back her intensity, finishing with a rueful shrug. "Um. Sorry."

"No, that's… actually a very fair point," Leliana says. "Very well, how about this? I would still like you to go and investigate, if you have the time, and if you can manage to find a rift to close nearby, preferably with witnesses, that would be helpful."

"I think I can manage that."

"And I'll send an agent with you, and he or she will assess the situation and give you advice as to how to proceed. Even if you won't claim the title of Herald in front of these people, I suspect there are ways to gain influence regardless." She spreads her hands. "After all, if they choose to believe it in spite of your denial, well, how could that be your fault?"

"That's devious and I like it," Evelyn says. "Done." She looks back down at the table. "And so it's back to the Hinterlands for me. I feel like we've practically annexed the place by now."

"Do _not_ say that where anyone else can hear you," Josephine says. "We have enough troubles with accusations of power-mongering as it is."

"Thank you, I am aware of that." She picks up the little figuring that represents herself and fingers it a moment. "A fortnight, you said? I think I can invade Valamar and check out a cult in that time. I'll need a day or two to work with the mages before I leave, but after that they can drill by themselves while I practice with Dorian on the road."

There's a little pause from all of them at the sound of the mage's name. "So you're… going to be keeping him then?" Leliana asks delicately. Which is good, because Cullen isn't entirely sure he can do it politely. "In your squad, I mean, I know you already invited him to join the Inquisition."

Evelyn shrugs and sets her piece back down on the side of the table. "He's a talented mage, actually has combat training, and we work well together. Plus, considering everything, don't you think it's a good idea to have him _out_ of town rather than hanging about while I'm not here?"

"That's… a good point," Leliana admits. "Well, if you're certain."

"I am," Evelyn says firmly, and that's the end of that.

They end up going over Evelyn's reports for several hours, since she hasn't been back in Haven for over a month. Cullen finds himself tremendously grateful for the breakfast she brought him, since they work through lunch and he'd likely be famished by the time they finally break for the afternoon. It's agreed that Evelyn will take three days (well, two and change, now) to work with Solas and the most capable enchanters, teaching everyone the energy transfer necessary to feed her the power to take on the Breach itself. She declares that tomorrow will have to be soon enough to start, however, as she's taking a few hours for herself to look after her gear and see to her field supplies.

"Maybe even take another nap," she adds, when she startles herself into a yawn. Josephine smiles at her kindly.

"If anyone has earned it, my lady, it's you."

"I'll definitely keep that in mind," she says, scrubbing one hand over her face. "Ugh. Well, maybe a cup of tea to get through the afternoon, and early to bed tonight. We'll see. What does everyone else have on their roster for the day?"

"Letters," Josephine says, sounding resigned. "Oh, so many letters."

"I'm _still_ trying to find that Warden that's supposedly in the Hinterlands somewhere," Leliana adds. "Now that farmers are starting to return to their homes, my scouts may actually be able to pin down a location for him in the next few days."

"Work rosters," Cullen says with a grimace, when Evelyn turns to him. "Scheduling intake interviews with two hundred mages."

Evelyn winces. "And Maker bless us, every one," she says. "All right, I suppose we should get to it. Unless anyone else has anything to add?"

No one does, so they break for the afternoon, Cullen pleased to find Evelyn on his heels as they leave the war room. He slows a step and allows her to catch even with him, then folds his hands behind his back to remove the temptation to reach out and tuck aside the stray curl of hair that won't stop straying across her forehead.

Well, it's a work in progress.

"Before you take off, I wanted to offer- If you need someone to handle some of the testing, I can take a few of them tomorrow, likely."

"You needn't," he tells her, frowning slightly. "My men can handle it."

She shrugs. "It's my fault they're here like this in the first place, the least I can do is help out. I've had the same training with maleficar that any adept mage gets. And… well, a few of them shouldn't be talking to Templars. Even former ones. They're… damaged."

He can only imagine what kind of damage would put that particular frown on her face. It's somewhat depressing how unsurprised he feels. He never saw any such abuses practiced on mages under his care, but he knows now just how little he saw, after all. And some Circles, hard as it might be to believe, were actually worse than Kirkwall. There's any number of reasons why a mage wouldn't be able to be in the same room as someone in Templar armor, and all of them fill him with sadness, and rage. And guilt.

He nods shortly. "In that case, I'd appreciate the help, if you truly have the time," he says. "Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, having some mages help with conducting the interviews isn't the worst idea ever. If we're to truly make them allies, then we must work to make them involved their own security. Enchanter Sorris has been with us for some months, perhaps he would know some names?" He looks to her for agreement and finds her with the strangest expression on her face. "What?"

"Nothing. You're just… Very clever. And kind."

He clears his throat, baffled and hoping that he's not blushing. "It was a simple idea."

"Nothing simple about it," she says, but doesn't push it, perhaps sensing his discomfort. "Anyway. I think it's a fantastic idea. Would you like me to speak to Sorris for you?"

Cullen remembers the last time he spoke to Sorris, months ago in the argument in front of the Chantry. The enchanter and his cohort have been keeping themselves scarce since then, likely unwilling to test the fragile peace of the village, and Cullen isn't sure how well he'd react to Cullen approaching him now.

"That would be much appreciated, thank you," he says. "I don't think he holds me in the highest regard."

She snorts. "He admires you greatly, in fact, but if you're determined to be humble today, I won't stop you." She pats his shoulder. "I always wanted to thank you again for escorting me back to my quarters last night. Considering the number of times I almost took a tumble this morning, I almost certainly would have gone down like a sack of stones with all the whiskey in me last night. You quite literally saved my neck."

Thinking of walking her home last night only reminds him of how close he came to doing something quite foolish indeed, and he rubs the back of his neck, trying to chase away the lingering memory of what it felt like, wanting to kiss her that badly. "It was my pleasure," he says, hoping that his voice sounds normal. "Nobody woke you early? I told the night guard to alert his relief at shift change."

"Ever thoughtful, that's you," she says, with a delighted little smile. "No, I was left quite to myself, slept indecently late. That's another thanks I owe you, then."

"As Josephine said, if anyone has earned it, it's you."

"Well since you've got the market cornered on humility today, I think I'll just accept the compliment and move on," she laughs. "I'll talk to Sorris sometime tomorrow while I'm getting the practices started, but I should be done with all that by lunch and free to give you a hand if you need it. See you tomorrow afternoon?"

"Tomorrow it is, then," he says, then hesitates. "I did wonder…"

She blinks up at him. "Yes?"

"Would you be interested in a spar, sometime before you go? To break in your new gear, of course," he says, with just a hint of a smirk. She chuckles.

"Of course, to break in my gear," she says. "Fun has nothing to do with it. Yes, you lovely creature, I'd _love_ to get in a good spar before I go. I've only had Solas to practice with, and he regards quarterstaff work the resort of the desperate and ill-trained mage, so you can imagine how _that's_ been going."

"Good to know I haven't been supplanted in your affections so easily."

"As if _that_ would happen." She pats his shoulder and peels off before he can react, tossing a "See you tomorrow, Commander," over her shoulder as she goes, cutting across the square to talk to Quartermaster Threnn.

Cullen stares after her for a moment, then shakes it away and goes down to take care of his own work.

**~*~**

He actually only sees her briefly the next day, since three of his squads return early from the Storm Coast with heavy packets of reports from their new friends the Hessarians, and he's positively swamped with paperwork when she comes by. If she takes offense at this she doesn't show it, however, just filches a copy of the mage roster his men have been compiling and heads back out of the tent with a wink, returning four hours later with a marked-up roster and a cup of steaming hot tea for him. He's in the middle of a briefing with his lieutenants when she does so, giving her an apologetic grimace, but she just leaves the roster next to his elbow, gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and takes herself off again. He almost forgets about the tea and it's lukewarm when he remembers to drink it, but even so, it gives him enough energy to get a second wind and make it through the rest of the afternoon.

It's evening by the time he has a chance to go over the roster she returned, and he reads over her notes by candlelight, her tidy angular writing as familiar to him by now as any of his men. She took care of a set of interviews, as promised: eleven mages, seven women and four men, with notes such as college affiliation, years practicing, specialty, and known associations among the rebellion. She also, on a separate sheet of paper for his eyes only, includes a brief summary of their states of mind, as well as an explanation as to why they should be kept apart from any former Templars for a time. He reads that once, grimly, and then sets it aside. He knows that it will return to him in his dreams.

The rest of the roster is marked up, as well- apparently she took it to Fiona to brainstorm, and she's included a detailed report from her and Sorris with a plan for how to handle the rest of the intake interviews. All three of them endorse his suggestion for mage-templar interview pairs, and Sorris has three names for him of mages who would be well-suited to work with Templar partners on his matter.

It's a great deal of work lifted from his shoulders in one easy stroke, and Cullen almost closes his eyes against the relief of it. Not just for the sake of the work she's saved him, either. It's also evidence that she's taking his concerns seriously when it comes to abominations, and that respect isn't something that he takes lightly. It's possible that they might come through this mess intact, after all. Offering an alliance to the mage rebellion is _still_ not something he would have done if he had the choice, but…

It's good to know that Evelyn is taking the matter as seriously as he, and that she's willing to work to find some middle ground. The least he can do is meet her there.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, he sleeps later than he intends. A series of particularly bad nightmares kept him sleeping fitfully in the middle of the night, and he falls into an exhausted doze a few hours before dawn. When he does wake up, the sun has climbed much farther in the sky than usual, and he's _still_ feeling faded and disoriented as he rises and dresses for the day. Not the best start, to be sure.

There's a teapot steaming gently on his desk when he arrives, and he stares at it for far too long before he realizes that it's not the the only thing that's out of place. In the corner, curled up on a pile of blankets that someone shoved in here for a rainy day, is Evelyn. One of Josephine's spare clipboards is balanced on her knees and a charcoal pencil is in her hand, while a mug steams gently on the floor nearby. She's giving him a look that is far too amused for his taste.

"Rough morning?"

"You could say that," he says reflexively, and squints at her. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but…"

"Why am I in your office?"

"Quite."

She holds up the clipboard for his perusal. On the parchment is the beginnings of a sketch, only barely started, but enough to recognize Lady Vivienne. Her smirk is particularly telling. "I'm hiding," she admits. "Lady Vivienne and I exchanged _words_ yesterday about my choices in handling the mage rebellion, and I suspect that she's going to be looking for another round today. No thank you."

"And you're betting that she'll never think to look for you here?"

She raises her eyebrows. "How often do you think Lady Vivienne sets one dainty foot among common _soldiers?_ "

Despite himself, he snorts. "Well, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like," he promises. "But I'm going to have a staff meeting in here around lunch, and it's going to get crowded."

"I'll keep that in mind."

This time he happily takes advantage of the tea while it's still hot, wrapping his hands around the mug to absorb some of the warmth and letting the fresh clean scent of the steam chase away the lingering fogginess from his dreams. He's still tired, but that's nothing new, and he finds it surprisingly comfortable to work with Evelyn sitting quietly in the corner. He was afraid he'd find her presence distracting, considering his recent emotional upheavals, but the scritch of her pencil and her occasional quiet, tuneless humming is oddly soothing.

After an hour or so, she uncurls herself from her makeshift nest and comes to peer over his shoulder, setting her clipboard carelessly aside on his desk. "Conquering the demons of paperwork?"

"Slowly but surely," he says dryly. She's close enough that he can smell her, clean soap and tea mixed with something vaguely spicy smelling that he thinks is from Josephine's borrowed hair oil. It's a lot more distracting than he'd like to admit. "How about you? Decided to face the dragon yet?"

"I've seen the dragon that's nesting on the coast," she says. "I think Madame de Fer might be more intimidating."

"What is it about her, anyway?"

"Have you _met_ her?"

"I'm serious." He twists around to make eye contact, managing to keep himself from startling when her face is closer than he expected. _Maker, she's pretty._ "You don't usually shy away from confrontation," he continues, a little gruffly, hoping that she doesn't notice. "As I can personally attest."

"Yeah, but you're… different."

He raises his eyebrows. "I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"Believe me, it absolutely is." Mercifully, she moves back and gives him a little space, easing herself into a hipshot lean against the corner of his desk. "You're simple- no, stop, let me finish," she says, laughing, when he grimaces. "I meant, straightforward. We don't see eye-to-eye on everything, but you won't lead me around into little conversation traps just to punish me for disagreeing. It reminds me of-"

He takes a look at her unhappy, pinched expression, and takes a stab in the dark. "Your relatives?"

She shoots him a sharp glance, then shakes her head ruefully. "I suppose I'm not terribly subtle, am I? But yes, close enough. Not my family- the Trevelyans take Chantry values very seriously, including and _especially_ temperance and humility- but the various extended cousins of varying degrees and relations-by-marriage that makes up almost the entire Ostwick social scene… oh, yes. You'd think that I'd have been well free of it, going off to the Circle as a child, but alas, no. My attendance was required at the family events regardless of what other circumstances might have been in play."

"Yes, Cassandra… mentioned something along those lines," Cullen says, thinking better of it halfway through the sentence but unable to find a way back out. She'd as much as told him that herself, back in the first few days of their acquaintance, he could have at least had the grace to mention _that,_ at least. "Um. This was back before I'd actually been introduced to you, in my defense."

"Ah, don't worry about it, I'm well used to that sort of thing. Growing up in a mage tower in the same city administered by your parents means that everyone knows _something_ about you." She smiles at him, and thankfully, she really doesn't seem bothered. "Besides, you know how it is in a Circle; mages don't get a lick of privacy. Some go a bit mad over it, but honestly, it never bothered me." She flashes him a wicked smile. "And it meant I got much, much better at sneaking around when I wanted to do something… illicit."

He can imagine well enough what she's talking about, and it makes the back of his neck go hot. He was always careful, when he discovered a trysting pair on his rounds, to leave them with nothing but a stern admonishment to seek their beds before he came around again, save for the rare mage-Templar pair that required punishment. The power imbalance inherent in that relationship would always be too great to be permitted- and, he can admit looking back, that some of his harshness was likely based on his own terrible experience pining after one of the apprentices under his care. Two mages finding an empty room to share some pleasure, however technically disallowed, was never something that he felt comfortable disciplining. The responsibilities of magic should not require any vows of celibacy.

"I have a hard time imagining you sneaking anywhere," he says honestly, and surprises her into a laugh.

"That's more than a bit fair, I suppose. I do favor fire a bit more than is advised for subtlety. But I was motivated as a teen." She shoots him a dimpled, sideways smile. "A time or two. Maybe."

He clears his throat. "So the problem with Vivienne is that she reminds you of your noble relatives?" he manages, desperately trying to avoid thinking about a younger, slimmer Evelyn, her face raw-boned with unfinished growth, smiling mischievously at some eager apprentice lad. That way only leads madness.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, but allows him the change of subject, thank the Maker. "Well, the real problem is that she thinks the idea of mages living outside the Circle is laughable, which I find a tad hypocritical coming from someone who administers her own Circle from a duke's country estate, but yes, the sly comments and general air of power-mongering don't sit overly well with me, I'll admit."

Cullen would argue with that, but even in his admittedly limited exposure to Madame de Fer, he got rather the same impression. "She _is_ a rather powerful woman, politically and otherwise, however," he says instead. "And your own plan for managing the Orlesian response to the mage rebellion rests on having at least her implicit approval."

"Maker, I _know,_ that's the worse part." She gives him a look. "Is that your oh-so-subtle way of reminding me that I need to make nice?"

"No, if I were to remind you of that, I'd just tell you," he says. "Hinting is for diplomats."

Also, he doesn't think that _she_ needs to make nice at all. While he generally has the utmost respect for her intelligence and observational skills, he thinks that her personal feelings might be interfering with her judgement on this matter. Vivienne went to a great deal of effort to get herself an invitation to join the Inquisition, and to stay, even temporarily, in a place so rustic and cramped as Haven, means that she recognizes its importance far too clearly to leave over something as trivial as a disagreement. If anything, she should let Vivienne come to her- and that's not diplomacy, that's just sound strategy. He knows it's not her way, however.

"And _this_ is one of the many, many reasons I will always vastly prefer your companionship to hers," Evelyn says with a little laugh. She reaches out and pats his wrist fondly. He can't feel it through the plating in his bracers, but a foolish warmth spreads through him at the contact nonetheless. "Straightforward, like I said."

"I think I'll take it as a compliment, this time."

"As you absolutely should." She straightens away from his desk with a groan, then looks down at the drawing she's left on his desk. The simple outline he saw earlier has been finished into a beautiful sketch of Madame de Fer, wearing what he suspects was the court attire she had on when Evelyn first encountered her. No mask, as he knows Orlesians favor, but this way Evelyn was able to more fully depict the expressiveness of her face that the masks are meant to hide. "Perhaps I was looking for a hint because I know it's the truth. I should face the music, I think."

"May I offer some advice?"

"Always."

"Give her the picture first."

She blinks at it. "What, this? But I was just passing time." She studies it, and winces a little. "It's also not the most… diplomatic."

Her depiction of Vivienne isn't the kindest, admittedly: capturing the distant haughtiness that the First Enchanter wears like a mask. But it is _also_ a beautiful drawing, and captures the sharp lines of her high cheekbones, the full curve of her mouth just as well. It depicts her beauty as well as her disdain.

"I think she'll appreciate it," Cullen says, and what he means is _It demonstrates your ambivalence and she will understand the message better than you seem to._ This way, Evelyn might be the one to break and go to her first, but regardless of how their discussion goes, Madame de Fer will understand quite well where she stands with the Herald of Andraste. Technically speaking, Evelyn is only one of their many agents, but realistically she's the heart of their organization, even if she's loathe to recognize it. If Lady Vivienne has the sense that Cullen expects of one such as her, she will understand the problem and work to correct it.

"You really think so?"

"I wouldn't say so otherwise," he points out. "Just give it a try."

She still looks hesitant, then shrugs. "All right, then, I will." She picks up the clipboard, and in a move he finds so charming it's a bit dizzying, tucks the pencil behind her ear. "Do you think you'll still have some time to spar, later today?"

"You leave tomorrow, do you not?" She nods. "Then I will make time."

"You're too kind." She purses her lips, visibly considers her schedule. "Late afternoon? That will give me time to finish up another round of training with the mages Fiona's selected for me-" She winces. "For the Breach! Maker, that came out a bit wrong, didn't it?"

Despite himself, he snorts. He's not the only one who blushes at times, he can't help but notice. "Late afternoon works for me," he tells her. "Besides, that way if things _don't_ go well with Lady Vivienne, you can work out your anger in the ring."

"I _don't_ -" She breaks off, clears her throat. "...do that," she finishes, throttling back her first, stronger response. Cullen blinks at her. "I appreciate the offer, though."

"...All right," he says, a little cautiously. He doesn't like having spoiled the easy mood between them, especially not when he doesn't know what he's done. "My apologies."

"No, it's- fine. You did nothing wrong." She sighs. "Don't worry about it." She gives his shoulder a fond pat, as if to show that there are no hard feelings. "So later this afternoon, then?"

"Absolutely." He doesn't rise to show her out, though it's a near thing, and instead just inclines his torso slightly in a half-hearted bow. "I will see you then."

"Excellent. Wish me luck."

"Maker go with you," he says, and looks back down to his paperwork as she leaves. She seemed genuinely uninclined to blame him for whatever verbal misstep he committed, but still, he worries. Well, he'll see her later, at least.

**~*~**

When she rejoins him, several hours later, he doesn't even hear her enter, preoccupied with signing orders to be taken to the Hinterlands with Evelyn's party on the morrow. When he finishes the last one and looks up, however, there she is, standing patiently near the entrance with her arms folded over her chest.

"Oh! Sorry to have kept you waiting," he says, and stands hastily, reaching for his sword belt, left hooked over the back of his chair. "You should have said something."

"You were working," she says with a shrug. She's in her fighting leathers already, he notes, her staff slung in its harness across her back, though on second glance it seems to be a new coat. He feels like he would have remembered if she'd had a great iron breastplate emblazoned with the Inquisition symbol before. "I didn't want to bother you."

"Rescuing me from the demons of paperwork is no bother, I assure you," he says, and buckles on his sword, grabs his shield. He no longer wears the harness to hook it to his back as she does with her staff, but the weight is still, yet, familiar on his arm. He worries, sometimes, about losing his skill to endless days buried under paperwork, but perhaps he can talk her into making these sessions a more regular occurrence. "Shall we?"

She slides out of the tent entrance and pauses to let him fasten the flap shut so that the men will know he is not in at the moment, then falls into pace with him as they head over to the training yards. "I should thank you for your advice about Lady Vivienne," she says, pulling on a pair of gloves against the cold. "She seemed quite grateful for the gift, and the conversation went… about as well as could be expected, really."

"That well?"

She makes a wordless noise of annoyance. "Well, she's not leaving the Inquisition any time soon, at least. We made peace, more or less. It will have to do."

"I think that's all anyone could ask," he reassures her. "No one would ever expect that all our members agree with one another on all things. It would be impossible, for one, and we'd have nothing but a useless echo chamber, for another. We've had enough of that with the Chantry."

"So you find value in having people to disagree with, then?"

"Of course I do. Is that so surprising?"

"Not at all," she says, and flashes him a sly, sideways smile. "You seem willing enough to call me friend, after all."

He clears his throat. "Willing enough, yes."

"We _are_ friends, right?"

"What?" And then, realizing how that came out, he pulls to a stop and swings to face her. "I mean, yes! I… rather thought so, at least." He peers at her. "Don't you think so?"

"Cullen, relax." She puts her hand to his shoulder as she laughs softly. "It wasn't meant to be a trick question. You're one of my best friends I have here. Please don't doubt that."

"Ah," he says. "I… feel much the same." It's nothing but the truth, but it feels like pulling teeth to put the words to his tongue. He doesn't like feeling vulnerable, even when she's done the courtesy of honesty first.

She doesn't make a production out the moment, however, thank the Maker. "Good," she says, warmly, and turns to continue to their destination. He cocks his head as she steps ahead of him, examining her coat. "New gear?"

"Trying something new," she says, over her shoulder. "I figured with the number of times people have tried to stab me, I could use some extra armor."

The coat also looks like it's a little heavier than before, with patterns he recognizes from his years at the Circle stitched with dark thread, almost invisible against the leather unless you're looking for it. And it's satisfying, in a way he wouldn't have quite expected, to see the Inquisition's symbol across her chest for the world to see. All in all, it looks good on her- and definitely warmer than her old gear, which can't be far from her mind considering the snow that still blankets the town. The Hinterlands are down out of the mountains and bound to be at least a little bit warmer, though likely not by much.

"Bet the extra weight will be hard to move in," he says.

"You'd be surprised," she says with a shrug. "Though if you're right, I'll find out soon enough. That's what this is for, right?"

"Oh, of course," he says, very seriously, doing his best to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching up into a smile. A moment later they fetch up against the railing of the ring, and she puts her hand to his arm before he can go in. "Yes?"

"I want to apologize for earlier," she says.

It takes a moment for him to think of what she speaks. The snapped comment, at the end of their conversation; he found it worrying at the time, but it fell out of his mind as the day wore on, and he'd quite forgotten about it til now. "It's no matter."

"No, I just thought I should explain." She clears her throat, shifts awkwardly. "You probably know, ex-Templar and all, that strong emotions can cause spontaneous magic? Like with Josephine, the other week."

"Yes?"

"So, sparring when you're angry is considered…. not a good idea," she explains. "That's how I was always taught. A mage can't just work out their anger in the ring, not safely. And I know that you're a Templar, but…"

_But I'm a Templar who doesn't actually have any of my old abilities,_ he thinks with a mental wince. At some point, he's going to have to tell her. It's just not safe, if she has assumptions about resistances that he no longer has, but it's an issue he'll put off for another time. She won't be able to do aught but look at him differently, then, and he wants to put it off as long as possible.

"No, the courtesy is quite appreciated," he says. "I mislike being set on fire as much as the next man."

She snorts, seemingly a little easier, and straightens away from the railing. "That's actually happened before, you know," she says. "It's the reason I got a bit touchy when you said something earlier. It was in my first few months with the army and I was a bit of a cocky brat-"

"No, you?"

"Hush," she scolds, though she smiles a little. "Anyway, one of the lads challenged me to a fight, in front of the entire company, no less, and things got a bit, heh, heated, and he may have ended up ever so slightly on fire."

"Oh, Maker." He can well understand her flinch at his joking suggestion earlier, then. "What happened?"

"Well, luckily for him I was as quick with a touch of frost as I was with flame, and no harm was done save singed eyebrows. Lord Commander saw the whole thing, though. I nearly got booted back to the Tower for it." She shrugs and unlatches the gate. "Everyone does stupid things when they're young, right?"

It's all too easy to picture her, a half-decade past and rawboned, a cocky smirk doused by a commander's rage. Incidents like that are part of the reason why Templars were so unwilling to allow their charges away from the Tower- Maker, it could have been so much worse- but all the same, with no freedom to make mistakes, how can anyone ever learn? It was only that the mistake of a mage could be so much more costly than that of an ordinary man.

Ah, well. Something of a moot point for now. Perhaps it can be revisited when all this is past. Certainly Evelyn has led an unusual life for a Circle mage, well-suited to speak to the dangers and advantages to life both inside and outside of the Tower. An issue for another time.

"Absolutely," he says. "Although if you think you're getting a similar story of my own in return, you're very much mistaken."

"Well that's just hurtful," she says. "I thought this was a bonding moment."

"A bonding moment is when I knock you into the mud," he says with a smirk. "This is just a prelude."

"Oh, if _that's_ how you want to play it, then I'm definitely not going easy on you this time."

"I look forward to it." He follows her into the training ring and shuts the gate behind him, but when she turns to face him he narrows his eyes, noticing something about her new gear that had been obstructed by the coat earlier. "Is that a silk shirt?"

Hilariously, improbably, she blushes. "Finer threads hold magic better," she says defensively, and pulls out her staff. Is it his imagination, or has the blade on the end gotten even longer? "Let's just fight."

"First, it's called 'sparring' when you're not trying to kill each other, and second-" He settles his shield more firmly on his arm, draws his sword, and grins at her. "-what if we get mud on your shirt?"

She narrows her eyes. "That's it," she says. "Get ready. You're going down."

"I doubt that very much," he says, and attacks.

**~*~**

Afterwards, she does have mud on her shirt, but not very much, and either way she seems entirely too cheerful to care, despite the beating she took at his hands. For his part, he is sore and tired from the beating she delivered in turn, but the soreness is a good one, well-used muscles and well-earned bruises rather than legs knotted with nightmares of trying to run, or shoulders stiff from hunching over a desk. As well, his head feels clearer than it has in quite some time, and he's as cheerful as she, and ravenously hungry besides.

"Dinner," she declares, scrubbing some of the mud off in an ice-rimed bucket near the smithy. "Dinner as soon as we're clean enough that Flissa won't throw us out."

Amused, Cullen glances up at the sky, judges the angle of the sun. "It's barely four in the afternoon."

"Then call it a late lunch, if it makes you feel better. I know you skipped."

"I was busy," he says mildly, then recoils in horror as she dunks her entire head in the bucket. " _Maker,_ what on Earth are you doing?"

She surfaces with a gasp and shakes her head like a dog, sending ice-cold droplets of water every which way. " _Much_ better," she says, and grabs a mostly-clean towel from a nearby hook to scrub over her wet head. When she emerges her damp hair is sticking up in unruly spikes, and her eyes are very blue against skin reddened by the sudden shock of cold. "Hate the feeling of mud in my hair," she explains. "It _clumps._ Ugh."

He shakes his head. "You have strange notions."

She offers the bucket. "You're welcome to give it a try."

"I think I'll avoid turning to a giant icicle, thanks all the same." He does crouch down next to her and scrub the worst of the mud stains off his armor, however, only going back to retrieve his cloak from where he'd left it flung over the railing when he's clean enough that it won't stain. Polishing armor is one thing, but getting mud out of fur is something else entirely.

Dinner is cheery, both of them more occupied with teasing each other about their sparring match than touching on darker subjects, and it gets cheerier still when they're joined by Varric and Sera, and then a few other Inquisition members that Evelyn's befriended along the way. Rion, an apostate who came up in the same Circle as Evelyn, gives him a wary look, but when he doesn't break out in a fit of holy Templar rage at the table, he seems to relax well enough into the merriment.

_Little steps,_ he tells himself. _You can't earn everyone's trust overnight._

They have to shuffle seats multiple times over the evening as more people arrive, and of course people are always getting up and back down to greet friends, grab a drink from an overworked Flissa, or go outside to take a piss. At some point, and Cullen's not sure how, Evelyn ends up sitting next to him. It's a little distracting, having her so close, but he manages to set it aside well enough that he doesn't think he's being obvious. Not even when she presses close, avoiding Sera's sharp elbows on her other side as the girl makes some expansive gesture, nor even when she puts her hand on his arm to get his attention and murmurs in his ear that she's going to get a drink, she'll be back in a minute. He likely blushes a bit, but it's warm in here, and no one seems to notice.

He does his best to protect her seat, but by the time she gets back, Sera has been forcibly shoved over by a scout Cullen doesn't recognize and there's no room for Evelyn to sit back down. She stands behind him, looking a little bemused with a mug of cider in her hand, and Cullen makes a quick tactical decision.

"Here, have mine, I was actually just leaving," he says, and suits action to word, eeling out from under the table and getting to his feet. Evelyn starts to demur that she couldn't possibly, but he shakes his head and gestures her towards his old spot. "No, I actually have some work I need to get back to. It's all yours."

"Well, if you insist," she says, but pauses before she swings her leg over the bench to sit down. "I suppose I won't be seeing you before I leave, then."

"Unless you're leaving rather later than expected, I doubt it. Dawn training practice tomorrow."

"Delightful," she says with a wince. "Well, then I shall make my goodbyes now. Try not to get into trouble without me to look after you, eh?"

"I'm hardly the one who's been getting into trouble lately."

"I do get into more than my fair share of scrapes, don't I? Ah, well, then wish me luck on my adventures, and we'll call it even."

He smiles. "Of course. Maker's blessing on you and your endeavors."

"Chantry boy," she teases, and starts to turn away. He reaches out and catches her elbow before he even realizes what he intends to do, and she pauses, blinks up at him. "Cullen?"

Oh, Maker, she's staring at him. "I would ask you a favor, if you will." It sounds foolishly over-formal, and she must think him strange, but she only cocks her head to the side, gives him an easy smile.

"If it's in my power, name it."

He clears his throat. With her eyes on him, it sounds so foolish, to just say it aloud, but… "Write to me, when you're gone?"

She blinks, then her smile spreads into a true grin. "Of course," she says, easy as anything. "As long as you promise to do the same."

He lets out a breath. "I think I can manage that."

"Excellent. I would be terribly lonely on the road, you know, without your letters to keep me company."

He nods to the table, full of friends she's made here in Haven, despite her weeks on the road. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"Let's just say it wouldn't be the same, then," she says, and reaches out to pat his shoulder. "I promise, Cullen. I'll write."

**~*~**

And write him she does.

He sees her ride off the next morning, though he's too busy trying to teach some of the new recruits how to maintain a shieldwall to do more than lift his hand in return when he sees her wave. She's still riding the big bay gelding Dennet gave her, even though by all rights the horse is too big for her- but even that beast looks almost small in comparison to the massive draft horse that the Iron Bull has for a mount. Dorian's borrowed mare looks positively tiny in comparison. It's a colorful picture that they make, riding out, and Cullen takes just a moment to smile at the image before he returns to his work.

The first letter reaches him only a few days later Haven, so she must have written it still on the eastern road. _I'm already rethinking my decision to have Dorian travel with me at the same time as Bull and the Chargers,_ she confesses. _A Tevinter mage and a Qunari mercenary, how could this combination possibly go wrong?_

_I'll tell you, since you're not there to ask: all the ways. It can go wrong... all the ways._

It's a short letter, obviously written in camp while other things are going on, but she makes time for just a quick doodle below her signature, a little stick-figure mage with a high collar, his mustache sticking straight out to the sides in indignation and steam coming out of his ears. Cullen can't help but snicker when he sees it.

_I'm surprised it's not Bull,_ he writes back. _Personally, I find Pavus particularly infuriating. I can only imagine how much worse it must be to actually be one of his enemies._

 _If Bull has a temper, I have yet to see it,_ she replies, along with a report of the current status of Inquisition efforts in the refugee camps in the Hinterlands. His men send back their own reports, of course, and constantly, but he asked her for her impression of the actual effectiveness of the work being done. She's an Inquisition agent, certainly, but she has more of an observer's viewpoint, and people are startlingly willing to talk to her on the basis of nothing more than the mark on her hand. Even people who have good reason to be wary of anyone carrying a mage's staff. _He just seems to find everything vastly amusing. And I wouldn't stay that Bull's his enemy any more than I am. There's just a bit of... latent hostility. For one thing, Qunari treatment of mages makes the worst of Circles look tame._

That's something that hadn't occurred to him, with how blithe and cheerful she seemed to be about Bull's presence. Leliana raised concerns when the idea of hiring the Chargers was first raised, but at the time all of her reports said that the man was Tal Vashoth, not truly of the Qun. _Does_ Bull make her uncomfortable? She has a right to feel safe on her own operations. The Chargers are good, but there _are_ other companies that could serve just as well under her command.

She laughs it off when he raises this concern to her in his next letter, however. _Bull's more flexible in his thinking than the typical Qunari,_ she says. _Not that I know what's typical for a Qunari. But he has mages in his company- *don't* tell him I told you that, by the way, it's supposed to be some big secret, as if it's not incredibly obvious the second the fireballs start flying- and he doesn't seem to have any problem with them. He's a lot more bothered by demons, but who isn't? I know they scare me more than anything, and I fight them just about every day in the field._

_You'd think they'd get less frightening after enough exposure , but apparently not. The *scream* that one sort does, I swear it chills my blood. Every time._

It's not inherently more revealing than anything else she's told him, but it _feels_ more intimate nonetheless. Part of that is a side-effect of writing letters: it is all too easy, as he knows, to write more honestly than you would otherwise speak, when the person isn't right in front of you, reacting to what you say. Part of it is probably just wishful thinking on his part. After all, they wrote back and forth fairly extensively before, and their friendship _has_ grown closer over past weeks. If she seems a little more honest, a little more _open_ than she did before Redcliffe, well, it doesn't necessarily mean anything between them, except perhaps that she trusts him a little more.

Even that is enough to warm him, though he always worries for her. The past few months have been stressful for her, to say the _very_ least, and they all pin too many of their expectations on her narrow shoulders.

_You are hardly the only one to find those beasts chilling,_ he writes back carefully. Demons are not a subject with which he will ever feel comfortable conversing, but it's easier, having the time to get his words straight, without having to fear that his expression will betray him. _They are reflective of the worst parts of humanity, come to life and attempting to kill you. It would be worrisome if you *didn't* fear them._

He doesn't hear back from her for some days, though he refuses to worry as he knows full well that she must be breaching Valamar by now. Refuses to worry _unduly,_ anyway. He doesn't doubt her capabilities, nor the capabilities of those she's leading into battle, but things happen. Even the best fighter doesn't always come back.

When he _does_ hear from her, it's when a message runner arrives at Haven with a fat bundle of reports for the three of them, and a short personal note for him. _I feel like I should apologize for the delay,_ she writes, exhaustion and exultation both visible in her wobbly letters and bolt punctuation. _We agreed that I'd be gone a fortnight in total, and it's been more than that already. Unfortunately, the Carta were well-fortified and had the advantage of higher ground, so we took the slow route and cleaned out all our their patrols in the surrounding area to whittle down their forces, first._

 _Still, I think I can safely say that the assault went very well._ ("Very" is underlined three times.) _The Carta were very well entrenched and littered the place with traps, but thankfully Varric is familiar with most of the designs. It made for pretty slow going, even after he showed a few of the Chargers how the disarming mechanism went, but we managed to get through to the main office on the third day, and you'll be happy to hear that the operation is officially closed. Leliana should be satisfied with the results as well, as we managed to keep a few of the leaders alive, and her agents took custody of them. I didn't inquire too closely as to what they did with them, but their reports are included in the packet, and they told me that they have some solid leads as to where they were shipping the stuff. All in all, a pretty solid win, although Maker, Cullen, if I never have to fight underground again it will be too soon. Give me the open sky any day._

Behind the letter is piece of paper folded in thirds; on the outside is written, _I think I found something that bothers me worse than demons._

When he unfolds the paper he finds a drawing, a little less crisp than even her casual sketches usually are, done by a tired or frightened hand. A darkspawn hurlock, its face marked and twisted by the Blight, but noticeably, horrifically human underneath.

Cullen stares at it for longer than he really wants to admit, compelled and repulsed in equal measure. He's seen more than his fair share of demons and abominations over the years, but he's never actually come face-to-face with any darkspawn. Many of the surviving Ferelden Templars marched with the mages when they went to Denerim to fight the darkspawn horde, but Greagoir had forbidden Cullen from joining them. At the time it had seemed a final indignity, but looking back, he can recognize that he was in no fit state to go to battle, much less against beasts that would have reminded him so much of abominations. Evelyn's sketch is hardly the first drawing he's seen of darkspawn, and yet something about it captures the thing that would have ruined him to face them ten years ago, something that Greagoir was wise enough to force him to avoid. Demons are terrifying, for the reasons that he said to Evelyn in his last letter, but darkspawn and abominations both are viscerally horrifying because the eye can't help but recognize that the beasts are, at least in part, still human.

He tries to start his reply- generally, he writes his letters over the course of two or three days, having only scattered amounts of time to put pen to paper with any degree of thoughtfulness- but after the third attempt leaves him staring in frustration at a blank page marked only with her name, he decides to set it aside for tomorrow. The drawing of the hurlock mocks him with twisted lips from atop a pile of papers, and perhaps it's superstition, but Cullen takes the picture and puts it at the very bottom of his desk drawer, face-down and buried by paperwork, where it cannot stare at him any longer.

**~*~**

It's not her fault that the next day is a bad one.

He's been overdue for one for some weeks now. He was hoping, apparently futilely, that he was finally over the worst of it, but the warning signs have been there for some time: the headaches, the knotted muscles and wobbly joints, the worsening dreams, even the poor leash on his temper. If Cassandra were in Haven more often she likely would have noticed and called him on it, forced him to take a day or so to himself and catch up on sleep, but Cassandra, like their fearless Herald, hasn't been here very much. Cullen's had full freedom to work himself right back into a relapse.

He knew when he went to bed last night that the dreams would be worse than usual, and they are. It's not her fault for drawing the darkspawn, nor her fault that he reacted so to it. She couldn't have known. She was only working through her own thoughts and fears through her art, and he would never begrudge her that. Nor can he, in all honesty, say that he would rather she _not_ send him such things, because he treasures the trust and closeness it implies all too much to want it to stop. It was merely… an inopportune time, and an inopportune subject. No matter. It is his burden to shoulder, and his choice to do so. She shoulders far too many of theirs as it is.

Still, when he wakes for the fifth time as the dawn sends harsh fingers through the windows, panting and sour with nightmare sweat, he might curse her name, just a little. His head aches fiercely, and his joints feel knotted and sore before he even gets out of bed; when he tries to stand, his head swims and his limbs feel watery. His vision greys out for a moment, and then comes slowly, reluctantly, back into focus.

_Oh yes,_ he tells himself. _This again. Well done you._

There's not much he can do about it but endure, however. Gritting his teeth, he splashes water on his face and forces himself into clothes and armor one aching piece at a time, then takes himself down to his office. The sunlight seems to pierce directly to the back of his skull, but he just slits his eyes and does his best to ignore it, ducking into the relatively pleasurable dimness of his tent as soon as possible. The empty letter with naught but her name at the top taunts him, but he shoves it aside under a pile of loose papers to deal with later, and grimly sets himself to the task of working through the reports the runner brought back from the Hinterlands.

The rest of the day doesn't go much better. Even though he knows it's naught but his own sickness, he can't help but find people particularly needful and stupid today, and he's afraid that he snaps rather more than is entirely acceptable. He even has to apologize to one of Leliana's runners, which is entirely galling for a multitude of reasons, and he knows full well that Cassandra's going to hear about it when she gets back. Sweet Andraste, if only he could just get _away_ from people for a spell.

His roiling stomach can't face breakfast and he works through lunch, but he forces himself to stop as the sun sinks low on the horizon and goes to the kitchens to get a small supper. Everything tastes like chalk and ashes on his tongue, but he chokes it down and returns to his own quarters quickly, shedding his armor onto the floor in a way that he knows will have him frustrated on the morrow but too tired to care and crawling under the furs with an exhausted huff of breath. It's only barely evening, but he feels as if he's been battling in full plate all day long, and at this exact moment in time, he's absolutely certain that he's never hurt this much in his _life._

But of course, he can't actually fall asleep. Oh no, that would be too easy. Instead, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the cheerful conversation of the soldiers passing by his door, and recounts all of the things he did wrong today. Aside from Leliana's runner, he snapped excessively at fully seven of his own men, including one of his own lieutenants. He's going to have to apologize to him, at least. He foisted off the afternoon training on Ser Linwood, even though he knows that Linwood is better with more advanced fighters and doesn't have much patience with beginners. He got the numbers wrong on the stables requisition wrong three times in a row, and by the end he had to rewrite the report entirely because of all the smudged and scratched-out ink on the old one.

He never wrote Evelyn a reply.

He groans and rubs his hands over his face, feeling the scratch of half-grown beard. He needs to shave, lest he look the barbarian some of their Orlesian cohort like to name him, but he doesn't trust his shaking hands with a razor near his throat. Maker, he can't even _look_ the part of a rational human. He's a wreck.

He craves the draught so badly he can actually, physically taste it.

_Stop it,_ he tells himself, _just go to sleep,_ but of course it never works like that. The more desperately he longs the release of sleep, even with its attendant nightmares, the more relentlessly his wakefulness taunts him. He can't seem to think about anything but his own failures- the small ones of today, and then, of course, _of fucking course,_ his brain helpfully starts to replay every mistake he's ever made. And Maker fucking knows it's a long and varied list.

Eventually he gives up and drags himself out of bed, going to the tiny desk Josephine helpfully put in his room. _Everyone is always tramping in and out of your tent, don't you want somewhere to work where you can't be interrupted?_ Generally Cullen _avoids_ being left alone with his thoughts whenever possible, but he's at least made use of it enough that it's stocked with parchment, quills, and ink, so he settles awkwardly on the stool and puts pen to paper.

He doesn't entirely know what he's going to draw, at first, but the idle lines quickly turn into the looming bulk of an abomination. The work proceeds quickly after that, and when he's done he can barely stand to look at it, but it's satisfying, too. He'll never have Evelyn's skill with a pen, but he thinks he manages to capture the look of his nightmare well enough.

He considers throwing it away, just crumpling it up and tossing it aside in some fit of latent metaphor, but instead he pushes it off to the side and grabs a fresh sheet of paper. _Have you ever considered,_ he writes quickly, far more sloppily than usual, _how many of the evils that haunt our world are reflections of humanity? Darkspawn are humans blighted to soullessness, and demons are the reflection of the worst parts of human souls. Abominations are demons made into human form. And it was human pride that blighted the world in the first place. I do believe that humanity has wrought great things- but we've done terrible things, as well._

He stops and stares at the page. It looks like the ravings of an absolute madman, he thinks in despair. And yet, he can't bring himself to crumple it and throw it away, either.

_You're a fool,_ he tells himself, but he scrawls her name at the top and signs his hastily at the bottom, and seals it and the drawing in an envelope. He slows down just enough to make her name on the envelope look a little less like chicken scratch and then pulls on his clothing, making haste down to his office before he can think better of it.

He puts the envelope in with the rest of the papers to go out with the ravens in the morning, and then turns and returns to his quarters before he can talk himself out of it.

He lies awake for a time after that, cursing himself for his foolishness but too cold and sore to get back out of bed and go retrieve the letter, which was more or less his goal. Maker only knows what she'll think of him for it, but at least she likely won't know the truth of it, him shivering and pained and pathetic in his bed like a child, shaking from pain and nightmares alike and wanting somebody, _anybody_ to hear him.

No. Cullen doesn't like to lie to himself, will not _allow_ self-deception any longer. He doesn't just want _somebody_ to hear him; he wants it of _her._ And not just because of his abominable attraction- like this, he isn't thinking of her beauty, nor her lithe fitness, nor even her strength of will. No, he's thinking of her own moments of vulnerability, her own weakness shown and shared with him and him alone. He thinks, he _hopes_ that she'd understand, that she'd empathize. That's all he really wants.

Eventually he falls asleep, his hand wrapped so tightly around his Inquisition pendant that in the morning, when he wakes tired and aching but with a clearer head at last, the imprint of it will be cut into his palm, a mark will linger for hours.

Of course, it's his left hand.

**~*~**

The next few days are very long, but the first day of a relapse is always the worst, and it is, relatively at least, a _downhill_ struggle back to his usual state of wellness. He apologizes to those who need it, claiming a winter ailment to many understanding nods, and sets Linwood to go over the reports while he takes back the beginner's training ring. At some point soon he'll have to find someone else to take over these sessions; the number of recruits grow by the day and soon they'll be too many for him to handle. But for now, at least, he keeps his complaints about "raw recruits" to the war room and holds his tongue as he paces down the line of young men practicing their stances; correcting the placement of a foot here, the angle of the shield there. They're enthusiastic, he'll give them that. And youthful eagerness always gives way to seasoning eventually. He was just the same as them, once, though it's hard to remember that sometimes. Maker knows he may have even been _worse._

Her reply comes in with the next batch of messages by raven, and it's only with sheer force of will that he keeps himself from opening till he's alone in his quarters that evening. The first page of her letter has no words at all, and is just a drawing of a sweeping bit of landscape, the very suggestion of mountain crags in the background, tall sturdy trees and spindly, empty bushes wrapped 'round with vines, a perfect set of fluffy clouds in the sky. It looks…. well, it looks like home. A similar scene could have been drawn from any one of the hills near Honnleath.

He takes in a deep breath at seeing it, then lets it out in a long sigh, turning to the second page.

_When I was Redcliffe,_ she writes, _there was a man there, a widower, who said he always left flowers on his wife's grave, every year. With all the fighting that was going on between the mages and the templars, he couldn't bring himself to venture out this year- said he promised her he'd take care of himself when she wasn't around to do it for him, and risking his life for some flowers probably didn't count. I told him I'd see if someone wouldn't do it for him, if they were nearby. And what do you know; we made camp less than a half-mile from the spot._

_I drew that from that hilltop a few hours ago. I left the flowers there, as I promised- lilies for mourning, and embrium for sweet dreams, I figured he probably won't mind that they're dried since it's winter- and then I just sat there with my back to the gravestone and drew for, oh, an hour maybe. Till the light went out and Sera came to fetch me for supper. It's past time for bed, but I stayed up because I wanted to reply to your letter but then I couldn't think of anything useful to say. Story of my life, really._

_It's a beautiful place, though, don't you think? A good place to rest._

There are more pages beyond this one, and he almost greedily turns to the next. It's written in a different shade of ink, the more expensive darker stuff that Varric favors, and he wonders what it cost her to convince the dwarf to part with some of his precious stock.

_So I was thinking about what I'd write in an actual reply today while we were on the road, and I don't know that I came up with any actual answers. Humans *have* caused a lot of shit. We're a bit crap, really, when you think about it._

_Oh, Maker, never tell Varric I said that. He'll never let me live it down._

He snorts.

_But, answers aside, I suppose I'd say that everything is balance. There's some who say that the natural state of the world is chaos, and that order is artificially created to combat nature. It's the one thing that the Chantry and the Qun have in common. Adherence to faith is necessary to create order out of chaos. After all, left to our own devices humans created the Blight, for starters. It's a compelling argument._

_But I've always thought that the natural state of the world is balance. Sometimes big things happen- Blights, religion, war- and then big changes happen as a result, but balance always comes back to the world, one way or another. I mean, it was the First Blight that allowed Andraste's army to strike against the Imperium, right? But look at the mess the Chantry's made of things lately. Chaos creates order which creates more chaos in turn._

_Or maybe it's bullshit, I don't know. I like it, though. It's comforting to think that in the grand scale of things, it doesn't matter too much. In a thousand years, who will remember our names, anyway?_

The last couple words are a little smudged, as if something brushed up against the paper, and there's a little streak of ink trailing away from the end of the question mark, making it look a little surprised. Next to it is a little sketch of an elf with x's for eyes and an arrow through her forehead.

_Sorry about that. Sera through a bloody walnut at my face, and it bounced down onto the paper. "Why would you throw a walnut at me, Sera?" I asked, entirely reasonably, I thought. "Because you're NUTS!" she says, and falls over laughing. (I should mention here that Bull bartered a few hours of chopping wood to get a cask of ale out of one of the local farmers, by the way. Said it was a fair trade. I didn't realize he intended to drink half of it himself.) I wonder about her sometimes, I really do._

_She's not wrong, though. I just read what I wrote and I sound a bit like a lunatic, but it feels cheap to start over, so… I'll send this back with the scout in the morning, I suppose. Try not to think *too* poorly of me. I had a bit of Bull's ale myself, and it seemed entirely sensible when I first wrote it. I don't think it much answers your question, but I think it can't come as a surprise by now that I'm not much of a deep thinker. I'm much more funny than clever, really._

_Your friend,_

_Evelyn_

There's a little doodle of an ale mug next to her signature, cartoonishly lopsided, and he chuckles a little as he folds the letter away and sets it aside with the rest. He's got quite a collection now, stored in a little iron box, and he's been using the two stones she gave him as paperweights, to keep the paper from spilling out. He's going to run out of room, soon, he thinks.

_Don't forget,_ he writes on a clean sheet of paper, with absolutely no introduction, _that you're also quite good at hitting things, too. That's your usual solution to problems, isn't it? You just take your big stick-_

**~*~**

_-and then I hit the demon in the face with a fireball. Look, you can make fun of me for the direct approach all you like, but when it's demons there's not really a lot of room for subtlety when it's trying to eat your-_

**~*~**

_-face was priceless. Josephine pretended to be horrified, of course, but I suspect she arranged the whole thing. That puffed up little toad wasn't ever going to say good things about us- now, if we're lucky, he'll complain bitterly of the humiliation of the prank rather than tell wild tales of orgies and blood magic, and the story that spreads will be rather friendlier than the alternative. She's quite terrifying clever, isn't she? I think I'll try to stay on her good side._

_Speaking of which, you mentioned in your last letter that you've taken another stray under your wing. How is Warden Blackwall working out for you? Wardens are reputed to be fearsome warriors all, but if he's not up to your standard, we can make use of him back here in Haven if need be. We're always in need of skilled-_

**~*~**

_-soldiers here in Lornan's Exile. Disproportionately large numbers of soldiers. I suppose the mentality of a cult is appealing to that sort- which I am allowed to say because I'm one of them, before you get huffy- but at least part of it was because they felt useful, fighting off the demons that were coming out of the rift nearby. After I closed it, there's not much left for them to do, and I predict that the castle will be losing people in droves shortly. Per Leliana's instructions, I've talked to as many people as possible, trying to win some friends, and I've even scooped a few of them as recruits. There's one fellow, Lord Berand, who's calling his soldiers from his estate to join us. I think you'll like him, actually; he seems a bit naive but very sincere, and he certainly seems determined to do something about the Breach. The fact that he actually has money, equipment, and training puts him one up on our usual lot, too, you have to admit._

_We're returning in the morning, so don't bother with a reply. I'll be back before it could reach me. It will be nice to be back again, I think; we haven't been out nearly as long this time as before, but I'm still looking forward to ~~seeing y-~~ a warm bed and a good meal that wasn't cooked over the open fire. If that means I've gone soft, then so be it. There are worse fates._

_Besides, it's past time to attempt the Breach, I think. Fiona has written that the mages as ready as they'll ever be, and I can't dawdle about in the Hinterlands forever. It's about time to save the world, don't you think?_

_See you soon._

**~*~**

And one letter, never sent:

_I want a day. Just one day, to myself, to prepare. That isn't so much to ask, is it? One day?_

_Of course it is. Who ever gets what they want? While I'm asking for the moon I might as well ask for you to share the day with me, with no one else about. It's about as likely to happen._

_I could die out there, you know. It nearly killed me last time, and I only stabilized it. I'll have twenty mages at my back to give me strength, but what if it isn't enough? They can lend me their mana but the Rift won't take their life if we fail, and I fear very much that if I'm to reach so deeply into it for its lock then I won't be able to disengage. I think it's going to be all or nothing, and don't get me wrong, Cullen, I'd die to close the Breach. I swore an oath when I started my training to give my life in service to others, and I'm no blind fool to ignore that this is the Maker's way of putting service in my path. But I don't *want* to die here. I have friends among the mages, and friends among the Inquisition, and I have you, and I don't want to lose any of those things. Especially not when I'm starting to wonder if you might be able to_

At the end of the sentence is a large inkblot, as if the author's quill rested there for some time, trying to find the right words. Whatever they were, they were never written down, because the letter ends there, the page is crumpled and torn at the edges. It was stuffed down into the bottom of the author's pack, where it stays till it burns, along with the rest of the author's belongings, when the dragonfire scourges Haven to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's-up, I probably won't be posting the final chapter till Friday. This last week was insane, and I'm still trying to finish the last scene. I appreciate the patience!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is a day late, there were vehicular emergencies. It's up now though!

Cullen doesn't actually manage to see her when she and her party ride back into Haven, as he's escorting Enchanter Sorris and a small squad of about five mages down to the ruins of the Temple, to help them set up for the assault on the Breach. Apparently there are certain runes and such that can be put into place to better focus their mana, and Cullen wants to make sure that they arrive there safely. There have been tensions enough between the mages and the rest of Haven, in the last few weeks, that he wanted to make a point of escorting them himself, and to ensure that they arrived there safely, as a pack of dead mages is the last thing that anyone needs right now. There are surprisingly few demons in the immediate vicinity of the Breach, a phenomenon Solas likened to the calm at the eye of the storm, but in these troubled times Cullen is taking no chances.

He leaves them with a full cohort of good soldiers to guard them and returns to Haven as quickly as possible, but it is still late afternoon when he returns. He leaves his horse under the care of one of Dennet's capable assistants, and notices some familiar mounts that are already groomed and returned to their stalls- Cassandra's black courser, the Iron Bull's massive roan, Evelyn's big bay charger. They've been back for some time, then.

His first thought is to go seek her out immediately, but he realizes that it would seem foolish, overeager. And he does, truly, have work that needs his attention. So he reluctantly returns to his tent, glancing about in hopes that he might happen to run across her on the way, but no such luck. Instead he finds himself at his desk writing reports for another couple hours, at least, before he sees the sun sinking low to the mountaintops and decides that enough is enough, for today.

He emerges into the chill evening air, rubbing his hands together briskly, and heads up the walkway towards the heart of town. He'll just make a quick check at her quarters, he tells himself, and then he'll go up to the Chantry to make his report to Leliana. She'll be wanting to hear about getting the mages settled, and to make sure that all is in readiness for Evelyn whenever she is prepared-

"Cullen! Ay, Cullen!"

He turns, and sure enough, it's the woman herself, jogging up the path from the mage encampment. He halts, letting her catch up to him, which she does a moment later, skidding to a halt next to him and giving him a beaming smile. "Hello!"

He laughs softly, her enthusiasm infectious. "Hello," he says, and because she seems so very happy to see him, he admits, "I was just on my way to your quarters to look for you."

"Well, you've found me," she says. He was a bit worried that this meeting would be awkward between them, with the so-personal tone of their letters the last few weeks, but her genuine pleasure makes it hard for awkwardness to take hold. "I was looking for you when we got in this morning, but Josephine told me that you were down at the Temple ruins. Sorris is preparing the area?"

"Sorris and a half-dozen hand picked assistants, yes. I admit to a distinct lack of understanding as to what they're doing there, but when I left they all seemed very pleased with their progress."

She makes a face. "Does it make you think less of me if I say I don't understand it, either?" she confesses.

She's making a joke out of it, but it's a hint of real insecurity, one that she likely didn't intend for him to see. He soothes it with an involuntary smile- he was never the most studious of the lads taking the vow, either. "Not in the least. Unless, of course, you think less of me for my inability to ever remember the Canticle of Silence in its entirety?"

"It's a grave lapse, but I think you can be forgiven." She rolls her eyes and starts walking again, and he falls easily into step beside her. "I've never really been much of a scholar, alas. It's how I ended up under the tutelage of a Knight-Enchanter in the first place- no one else could figure out how to make me sit still long enough."

He can too easily picture Evelyn as a child, all energy and curiosity and knobby knees. Maker, what an adorable image. "And yet you've quite the skill with a pencil or quill," he says. "In another life, you could have made a living drawing portraits on the streets in Val Royeaux."

"Oh, and what a romantic life it would have been!" she says, with an imaginary swoon. "A small room to call my own on the top floor, gruel for breakfast every morning, silly hats everywhere I turn- wait, no, that was the Circle."

"Mage hats _do_ get a bit silly," he agrees, tongue in cheek. She dimples up at him.

"Truly, though, flatter me as you do, it's nothing special. Merely a hobby."

"You've talent a'plenty for a mere hobby," he says with raised eyebrows. "I refuse to believe that such sprung full-formed into your head. Or do you claim not have practiced, as Sera does with her archery?"

"In Sera's defense, I think she actually _doesn't_ practice much," Evelyn says, "some people are truly gifted that way. But you are right about me, at least. There's only so much even a battlemage-to-be can avoid book learning, much to the dismay of my younger self, and Master William liked to leave me under the watchful eyes of the Circle Tranquil as a punishment when I was acting up. They were the only ones who could get me to behave, probably because because they scared me silly." She glances at him. " _You'd_ know- it's hard not to be frighted of them, when you're young. They seem so cold."

"Yes," Cullen says distantly. "Yes, I know."

"It's different now. Once you're older, you can see how vulnerable they are. Looking back, I think William set me to work under them as much to have someone looking after _them_ as to have them looking after _me._ Our Circle was a good one, but there's always bad apples."

Yes, Cullen knows that full well. Even on his worst days, he's never had anything but the fullest of sympathy for the Tranquil. Of the many regrets he has of his time in Kirkwall is how many mages got the brand under Meredith's orders, good mages who'd passed their Harrowing and should have been protected under Chantry law. Even at the time he knew something was wrong there, angry not being the same thing as _blind,_ but in the end all he'd been able to do was to arrange things much as her master had, to keep some of the clever or fiercer mages and the kinder Templars stationed near them so that none could take advantage.

It wasn't enough. It hadn't ever been enough.

"Cullen?" Evelyn says softly, in a tone that makes him realize it's probably not the first time she's said his name. "Are you all right?"

"...Yes," he says, and then, more firmly, "Yes, I'm sorry. Lost in thought, I suppose." He hasn't recovered from his relapse as well as he'd thought, if he's drifting so easily as that. Maker, and they were having such a nice moment, until he ruined it with his weakness.

She gives a thoughtful hum, seemingly unbothered by his lapse. "Well, it happens to the best of us," she says lightly, "and since it's happened to you I _know_ that to be true."

Sweet Andraste, if she compliments him again like that he'll blush like a schoolboy and then his humiliation will be complete. "Evelyn…" he says warningly.

Teasingly, she waves an imaginary fan at her throat, as if they're in a stuffy ballroom somewhere rather than outside in the brisk winter air. "Maker, listen to that growl. If you keep going like this, Commander, you're going to make me swoon."

It's overtly, _absurdly_ flirtatious, even coming from a woman who's never shied away from teasing him in that manner, and he knows that she's doing it to cheer him up. Worse, it's working. Despite his embarrassment, he can feel the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smile.

"You're too much."

"See, there, I knew you'd admit it eventually," she says triumphantly. " _Everyone_ says that at some point. Except the Tranquil, I suppose. Immunity to frustration makes for some very patient teachers." She stretches out one arm and with the other hand, sketches a quick rune on her sleeve that glows, briefly, before disappearing into nothingness. "See? More than ten years on and I can still do some of the patterns in my sleep. The sketching I did when I was supposed to be taking notes in the library, but the runecrafting gave me a steady hand with the pen. The rest just came with time, I guess."

"So what you're saying is," he teases, "you know exactly what Sorris and the others are doing down at the Temple."

"Andraste, no, I know sweet bugger all about magical theory," she says. "What I'm saying is that I'm a damned fine draftsman."

"I should have Varric ask some of his mason friends to take you up on that assertion."

"Oh, please don't. I couldn't handle the criticism."

They reach the door of the Chantry, and Cullen realizes that while he hadn't been walking in any particular direction, just walking because he liked walking beside her, he’s still fetched up at his destination nonetheless. "This is my stop," he says, inclining his head to the open doors, "I need to confer with Leliana. Your destination as well?"

"No destination, I actually need to go back to the mage tents," she says, looking a bit shamefaced. "Got a bit caught up talking, I suppose. I originally just came up to say hello, and maybe ask- but it's stupid."

Well, now, he can't possibly ignore an opening such a that. "Is there aught I can do for you?" he asks. "Name it, and it's yours."

She shakes her head quickly. "No, I shouldn't have brought it up. You're busy."

Busy, certainly. Too busy for her? He refuses to allow it. "Name it."

She seems suddenly awkward, glancing away and twisting her fingers together in front of her. "The day after tomorrow," she says, and when she can't continue, just glances to the sky, he suddenly realizes what she means.

"Your attempt on the Breach."

She seems grateful that he's grasped her meaning. "Yes. Leliana was planning to try tomorrow, but I asked for a day to myself first and Cassandra stood up for me, so I have it. I'm going to go up the mountain, sleep under the stars."

"That sounds wonderful," Cullen says, wondering where the favor lies. "I think the weather-augurs have said it will be clear for some days. I envy you the chance, really."

"Oh, that's… good," she says, and bites her lip. "That you think that. Because I was wondering…"

He doesn't entirely realize he's doing it until he edges closer, tucks his head down so that his voice comes lower, more intimate. "What is it?" he asks softly. She is so rarely hesitant in any way.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," she blurts, and then winces. "You can absolutely say no, I know you must have a thousand things to do, I just really don't want to be by myself and be alone with my thoughts and I could ask someone else but I don't want to be a bother-"

"Yes," he says, cutting off her babble. She blinks up at him in a way he wishes he didn't find so adorable.

"Yes?"

"I'd love to," he says. Inwardly, he's frantically trying to figure out all of the things he's going to have to do tonight, all of the shuffling he's going to have to do- Maker, _on the very eve_ of their first big engagement since they've had time to train their forces, _what is he thinking_ \- but all he says is, "What time should I meet you tomorrow?"

"...Midday?" she hazards, still looking a little dumbstruck that he's agreed. "That way we both have some time to set our affairs in order, and then we could ride up in the afternoon, make camp and then come back early the next morning. I wasn't intending to go far," she assures him, as if suddenly he's going to scold her for being irresponsible. Maker, as if _she's_ the irresponsible one in this scenario. But it's not as if he was ever going to be able to tell her no- and it's not as if he doesn't want to be away from this town, if even for a day, almost as much as she clearly craves it.

And it's not as if he minds the thought of a day at her side, with no one and nothing else to interrupt. Not that he thinks anything will come of it, not like _that,_ but… It would be nice. Just to… be… with her. More than nice.

Maker, he's an idiot.

"That sounds good," he says. There's quite a bit he can do with several hours of candlelight and a free morning, if he has a will and a willingness to actually delegate for a change. "Shall I meet you at your quarters?"

"Where you will likely find me haphazardly shoving things into my pack, as always," she says ruefully. She still seems a little dazed, but a delighted smile is starting to bloom across her face. "I know that sort of thing offends your organized sensibilities, so try not to think too unkindly of me for it."

He scoffs. "As if such a thing is possible."

"Yes… well…" She clears her throat, tilts her chin up defiantly to meet his gaze. "So. Tomorrow?"

Abruptly he realizes how close he is still standing, and takes a step backwards, trying not to make it look like a retreat. "Until then," he says, and they both bow slightly at each other, Evelyn rolling her eyes at the formality before she turns and heads back down the path with a wave.

_Oh Maker, you beautiful idiot,_ he tells himself. But he can't, in truth, bring himself to feel too badly about his decision, after all.

**~*~**

It takes two full candles' worth of work that evening and a start at dawn the next morning, but he manages to tidy away his remaining tasks well enough that shortly after noon he's knocking on her door, his pack slung over his shoulder.

There's no answer, and frowning, he knocks again. Still silence. He considers the possibility that he might have been mistaken at the time- did she say midday, or just _the middle of the day?_ She could be enjoying her lunch now, and him too early, looking like an overeager lad. Not exactly the impression he wants to make.

Still, he was fairly sure as to the time, and he's halfway considering looping around to the side of the building to check her windows when one of the patrolling guards stops with a respectful bow. "Looking for the Lady Herald, ser?"

"...As it happens," Cullen replies cautiously. "Have you seen her?"

The guard nods. "I'm to tell you that she's gone on down to the stables, and would you please see her there," he recites. "Something about getting an early start."

Cullen releases his breath on a sigh. In spite of himself, he's that relieved. "Thank you for the message," he says. "Carry on."

The guard salutes, and resumes his patrol as Cullen heads back down to the front gates. Evelyn's big bay is saddled and tied to the hitching rail near the front of the stable, with a chestnut of similar size tied next to it that's clearly meant for him. He slings his pack up behind the chestnut's saddle and straps it into place, noting that hers is already similarly fastened on her mount, with her staff tied to the top. What he doesn’t see is the woman herself.

When he ventures into the stables proper, he hears voices coming from the hayloft- a male voice that he doesn’t recognize, followed by Evelyn’s laughter. About to climb the ladder to fetch her, he hesitates with his boot on the bottom rung, considering. There are only a handful of reasons why a woman might be in the hayloft with a man when she doesn’t actually work in the stables. Perhaps she’s trysting with a lover? The thought galls, for a number of reasons, but the thought of accidentally walking in on them is far worse, so he clears his throat and calls tentatively, “Lady Herald?”

“Cullen!” Evelyn calls back without pause, and even from a distance he can hear the smile in her voice. “Hold just a moment and I’ll be finished.”

She doesn’t _sound_ like she’s in the middle of a tryst, and when a few moments pass and he doesn’t hear movement, he decides that he can probably risk it. “I’m coming up,” he calls, and suits action to word.

He immediately spots her, sitting a ways back from the edge on a stack of bales, Dorian Pavus sitting across from her and a stranger with a large black beard standing nearby, observing. Evelyn and Pavus both have their hands outstretched, hers hovering a few bare inches above his, and soft blue glow pulses rhythmically between their palms. Evelyn tosses him a quick smile when she spots him but otherwise doesn’t waver from whatever spellcraft she’s doing, so Cullen goes over to stand next to the other man.

“Warden Blackwall, I’m guessing?”

The man chuckles and pats his breastplate. “Griffons give it away, I suppose?”

“A bit.” He holds out his hand. “Commander Cullen.”

“Well met,” Blackwall says, and gives it a respectful shake- and then a salute, when Cullen’s hands drop away. He raises an eyebrow, and Blackwall shrugs. “Force of habit.”

“As you say." The Wardens are famous for taking people from all walks of life, and Blackwall would hardly be the first soldier to join their ranks. He sets his shoulder against the wall in a lean and nods to the two mages. "Supervising?"

Blackwall snorts. "I was here first. They heard me moving about and decided to invade."

"I didn't know you were here, all right?" Evelyn says, with the long-suffering tones of a woman who's said it more than once before. "I just wanted a quiet spot to get a quick spot of practice in before I left, and-"

"Careful!" Pavus yelps, as the pulsing light between their hands loses rhythm at her distraction. Evelyn frowns and the light steadies, though it's somewhat brighter than before. "Sweet Maker, Evelyn, pay attention to your craft."

"Shut it and finish the spell," she snaps back good-naturedly. Beside him, Blackwall rolls his eyes.

"They're _always bloody like this,_ " he confides. "I thought after the first day or two they'd wear themselves out, but no. They're like those little wind-up toys, the auto-whatsits. Only they never wind _down._ "

Cullen's seen a fair few instances of their banter, and he knows from experience that Evelyn is fully ready, willing, and capable of keeping up a steady stream of teasing conversation approximately till the end of days. She's had arguments with Varric that lasted the space of weeks since neither one of them was willing to give up the last word- he can only imagine what she's like with the grandstanding Pavus, on the road with nothing else to hold her attention for hours at a time. He does rather feel for Blackwall. But-

"You get used to it," he says, and keeps his gaze on Evelyn. She doesn't turn to face him, but he knows that she hears him because her lips curl up faintly in a smile.

She and Pavus focus their attention in earnest on their spellcraft now, however, and even Cullen can see that their casting is reaching a crescendo. The light between their hands pulses faster, steady as a metronome, and the air around them grows noticeably colder, not that it was terribly warm to begin with. Cullen exhales and sees his breath fog out like a plume of smoke, just as Evelyn and Pavus close their eyes in unison, curl their hands into fists, and the light between them winks out.

Over the next few heartbeats, the temperature of the air rises back to normal, and when Evelyn blinks her eyes open a moment later, it's with a faint rime of frost on her eyelashes. "Whoops," she says, chuckling and wiping at her face. "Got a little too into it and and pulled heat there at the end. Dorian, you good?"

Pavus opens his eyes somewhat more slowly, but when he does so the most self-satisfied smile Cullen has ever seen spreads across his face. "Oh, I'm excellent," the mage purrs, and rolls his shoulders in a stretch, graceful in motion even while seated. "Have I mentioned how much I adore being your practice dummy, my dear?"

Cullen is starting to feel a little uncomfortable. He doubts that the two of them were doing anything particularly private or they wouldn't be comfortable with having witnesses, but Pavus's tone was rather unabashedly sexual, even to Cullen's ears. He _feels_ like he's walked into something he oughtn't.

"What were you doing, anyway?" he asks, and hopes that it sounds casual.

"Trading mana," Evelyn explains, twining her hands in front of her and then reaching as far forward as they can go in a long, bone-popping stretch. "It's a control exercise. Both of us pool raw energy between us and shift it back and forth without casting for a set amount of time."

"And then one of us gets to keep it at the end, which is delightful because it feels _amazing,_ " Pavus sighs. "Commander, you should try it yourself. I cannot recommend it enough."

Oh, what a notion. "I'm sure it's a thing best left to mages," he says dismissively, thinking that to be the end of it, but Pavus lights up at his own suggestion.

"No, it works well enough with mundanes as well!"

"We've talked about that word," Evelyn cuts in.

"It's not offensive here, most don't even know what it means!"

" _I_ know."

"Very well." Pavus rolls his eyes and repeats, "It works well enough with _non-mages_. You can't initiate the transfer, of course, but any mage with training can form a link with a willing partner, mage or no."

"...That smacks of blood magic," Cullen can't help but point out, even though he knows better than to start a discussion like this. Evelyn winces, but Pavus merely shrugs, not at all offended by the implication.

"Energy is energy. Blood magic is the trick of demons, taking the life force of the unwilling in exchange for mana. A transfer that I speak of has to be willing- and it can go both ways." He pauses. "Admittedly, I've rarely seen it used in that direction back home, but it can be done. And I promise you, it truly does feel amazing."

"I'm not interested," Cullen says, likely rather harsher than is entirely necessary, given that Pavus is, in his way, only trying to be polite. "...but thank you for the offer," he adds, on the assumption that a bit of politeness rarely hurts anyone.

"Oh, _I_ wasn't offering," Pavus says with a twinkle. "But I'm sure Evelyn would be _more_ than happy to _form a link-_ hey!" The insinuating smirk on Pavus's face is wiped away as a spark flashes lightning-quick from Evelyn's fingers to the studs in his right ear, and he brings up one be-ringed hand to rub the sting from his lobes. "That was uncalled-for."

"That was absolutely called for, you prat," Evelyn says heatedly. "You have no sense of boundaries whatsoever, do you?"

Pavus grins, still massaging his abused ear. "Boundaries are for peasants with no imagination."

"And on that note, I'm leaving." Evelyn clambers rather awkwardly to her feet, and drubs her knuckles across the top of Pavus's styled head. "Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone."

Pavus tilts his head back to scowl up at her, finger-combing his hair back into place. "I shan't miss you if you're in a mood like this."

"Get used to it," she advises, and gives a quick wave to Blackwall. "Sorry about invading your peace and quiet," she says. "Feel free to throw the blighter out bodily, if he won't go."

"As if I'd want to linger around here! It smells of _horses,_ you know."

"I'll hold down the fort," Blackwall says, ignoring Pavus, and she grins at him.

"Sounds good." At last, she turns to Cullen, and her smile goes unexpectedly sweet around the edges. "Sorry for the circus," she says quietly, to him alone for all that they still have witnesses. "Shall we?"

He chuckles and waves to the ladder. "After you."

**~*~**

It's a beautiful ride up the mountain. The higher they go the thicker the snow gets, as some of its weight has melted off the lower reaches near Haven, but their mounts stay steady as they weave between the trees, and the footing never really gets treacherous. The trees are draped in snowy blankets and sparkling with diamond-like ice, and though Cullen knows her artist’s eye is more inclined toward portraits than landscapes, he can’t help but hope that she appreciates the view as well as he does.

Still, the true enjoyment of the ride isn’t in the scenery, but the company. They are both fairly quiet for the first hour or so, but by the time that the smoke from Haven’s chimneys has faded entirely, they’re deep into conversation about Inquisition forces. He’s been receiving her reports from the field, of course, official and otherwise, but they haven’t had much opportunity for an in-depth discussion on the subject for several weeks at least, and he values the input of an outsider’s eye that’s just as trained as his own.

“-so I think it’s just about time to cycle some of your people back through for reassignment,” she’s arguing, as they take a break to allow their horses water from a nearby stream, a sizeable hole melted at the edges with a flick of her fingers. He’s crouched down beside his mare’s nose, filling his waterskin with streamwater for later, but she’s still mounted, and the angle at which he has to crane his neck to meet her gaze is ridiculous. “Conditions are getting better, but it’s still pretty rough. Your seasoned people could use a break back in camp and be put to better use training for the time being, and your newer recruits have a few months of seasoning under their belts and are ready to hold out on their own for a time.”

“I thought you were the one who always liked to tell me not to break up existing units,” he says, mostly to see her response. Her scowl does not disappoint.

“If I remember correctly, I said not to break up existing units _without good cause,_ ” she corrects grumpily. “Reassignment is a normal part of service. You want to encourage loyalty to the whole, not just to the man who serves beside you. And it gives you a chance to cycle the soldiers you’re currently using to train back out into existing units as field officers to maintain the chain of command and why am I even bothering to explain this,” she interrupts herself, rolling her eyes, “when I know full well you know this already. You’re just saying it to poke at me.”

“My lady, I would never,” he says, pressing one hand to his breastplate, and she makes a rude noise, gesturing something from the other side of her horse’s withers that he can’t quite see. Probably for the best. He might have to stop smiling long enough to get offended, otherwise.

“My lord, you would always,” she returns, and he gives in and laughs, corking the skin and slinging it back up to his pack. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t want my advice.”

“And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fishing for compliments,” he returns. He sets his foot in the stirrup and swings back up into the saddle, kicking high over the cantle to avoid disturbing his things. “It’s a good thing that the Herald of Andraste is above such petty vanities.”

“And a good thing her Commander isn’t a complete smartarse,” she shoots back, but she’s hiding a smile very badly. “How did we get to talking about work, anyway? I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

“Ah, forgive me, if I had but known I would have stopped you when you starting discussing battle tactics,” he says, very seriously. “This is an important day for you, and you know I would of course do everything in my power to respect your wishes. Including telling you repeatedly to be quiet, if necessary.”

“Such kindness,” she drawls. She lays the reins against the neck of her bay and they head off back onto the path, his mare falling easily into stride beside hers. As they get higher up, the woods will get thicker and they will have to ride single file once more, but for now he can look over and see the rueful amusement on her face. “All right, so I started it. In my defense, I don’t think I have a lot of conversational topics that _aren’t_ related to the Inquisition somehow.”

“I’m just as guilty,” he agrees. “I’ve never had much time for anything aside from my duties. All of my friends were always other Templars.”

“And mine other soldiers, mostly,” she says. “I suppose it can make for some boring conversation, having such a limited worldview."

"I don't think anyone would ever make the mistake of calling yours _limited,_ with as much as you've seen and done," he says, and when only silence meets his observation he turns with a lifted brow. "What, no comeback?"

Unfathomably, she blushes slightly. "Undone by the compliment, of course," she says, and it's her usual teasing tone, but it's… more, too. Something he can't quite identify. "I could say the same thing about you, you know. You’ve seen and done more than most will ever claim.”

True, but a sobering thought nonetheless. Not all of what he has seen and done made him a better man; much of it, in fact, did entirely the opposite, for longer than he cares to admit. And his poor decisions had consequences, ones that stretched far beyond himself.

“That may be so,” he says heavily. He knows he’s ruining their light, cheerful banter- as she says, it’s her vacation- but he can’t quite seem to stop himself. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m proud to claim all of it.”

It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting aloud his regret over some of his time as a Templar, and his belly immediately tightens in fear of her reaction. It’s not the same as it was at the beginning, when he was telling a strange mage who had no reason to think well of him that he served in Kirkwall in the height of the madness. He knows now that she will not judge him harshly on the sake of his former profession. They have already tested their differences against the bedrock of their friendship and found it to be capable of withstanding such quakes. Whatever else might pass between them, he is sure of that, at least.

No, he waits her response with sickness in his belly _because_ of their friendship, because he fears her disappointment far worse than he once feared her anger. She’s too clever not to take his meaning even from such a curt statement, and he doesn’t want to see those blue eyes turned to him without their usual warmth. Not today.

She doesn’t answer immediately, and the knots in his belly grow larger at her silence, but when he steals a sideways glance she merely looks thoughtful. “I think I’d be surprised if you were,” she says, after a moment. “I have my fair share of regrets too, you know. War is never as clean as they make it out to be in the story books. Man does not need blood magic or demons to commit horrors, especially on the battlefield. I’ve done things I don’t like to remember.”

It’s an unexpected confession, though nothing Cullen couldn’t have assumed for himself. Templars, when all goes right, serve more as caretakers than as soldiers, but he’s taken to the battlefield often enough, and he understands how it is. Decisions made in the heat of the moment can haunt you later, well he knows- and that’s merely when your adversaries are demons and abominations. How much worse must it be when the face on the other side of your shield is as human as your own?

“But I don’t think it’s about that,” she continues, still in that thoughtful tone. “About right or wrong. Not exactly. What happened, happened, you know? You can’t change the past.”

“You did.”

“Ha, fair enough! Still, it’s an exception that rather proves the rule, I think. Though it was always only the present for me, you know, no matter what year it was. So I suppose I should say that you can’t change _your_ past.”

The thought of it sits like a stone at the bottom of his ribcage. “That’s not the most comforting thought.”

She makes a face at him. “Maybe. But that’s not really the point, is it? It’s about what you do now.”

“You can let it drag you down,” he agrees, going loose with relief. She _does_ understand, after all. “Or you can rise above.”

“Exactly! I mean, you can be angry, and cynical, and look for the worst in people-”

_Something I have done all too often,_ he thinks, but does not interrupt.

“Or you can learn that you’re not the only one that feels pain.” She reaches across the space between their mounts and pats his knee. He does not start at the touch, but only because he’s too busy staring down at her gloved hand. “That’s why I like you so much, you know. You’re kind. Even when you don’t agree with somebody, you can still empathize with them. You’re not… bitter. Just pragmatic.” She favors him with a slightly lopsided smile. “You understand.”

It’s probably the finest compliment he’s ever received, from someone that he respects and admires as much as anybody he’s ever known. And it’s not deserved at all.

He tries twice before he’s able to swallow around the lump in his throat. “You flatter me too much.”

She gives his knee a squeeze that he can feel even through the layers of his cloak and trousers. “I think I flatter you just enough,” she says, and then withdraws her hand before she can wreck his composure any further.

“I haven’t always, you know,” he says, out of some maniac urge to make her understand that she gives him entirely more credit than he deserves. “Been what you think. I know I’ve said before, but- you wouldn’t have wanted to know me before I left Kirkwall. I-” _Honesty,_ he tells himself. “I wasn’t a very good man.”

_If she gives me some trite response I may just turn around and right back down the mountain,_ he thinks faintly if ridiculously, but in this, as in so many other things, Evelyn does not disappoint. “And I used to be a cocky brat with a chip on my shoulder who thought it was me against the world, and the world didn’t deserve to win,” she says instantly, though she looks away as she says it. There’s shame writ in the lines around her mouth. “I’d kill a man in battle and never lose a wink of sleep. It was all just grand fun to me, getting out there and throwing fireballs around, leading men to glorious victory, the whole song and dance routine.”

She falls silent then, and Cullen says nothing, because he knows the look of a woman not yet finished with her speech. A moment later, she says, her voice smaller, “I never understood why some of the lads would get sick after. Maker, I was the worst to them, poor lads, because I thought they were weak. Boys under my command, who looked up to me and respected me, who didn’t know what war was until it chewed them up and spat them out- and I ruined them, because I thought I knew everything.” She sighs, hunching her shoulders as if to ward off his bad opinion. “It took me a long time to learn how wrong I was. There was someone- Well. I guess what I’m trying to say is you wouldn’t have wanted to know me then, either.”

For a moment Cullen is struck dumb for want of a response. He knows better than most that a bad commander can do more harm to a soldier than any enemy’s blade, and the thought that Evelyn had been one of them- That Evelyn had once looked at men like- like _him,_ damn it, frightened and hurt and doing all the wrong things because of it, and she’d _judged_ them for it… It sends a sudden spike of rage up his spine at the very thought.

And then, as quickly as it comes, his anger fades away. Evelyn is not Meredith, to drive young men to ruin and think it righteous, nor to take advantage of a weakness to suit her own needs. Any mistakes she may have made in her youth were clearly made out of ignorance rather than malice, and whatever follies she may have committed in years past, he has done more and worse out of deliberate blindness.

As well, she’s shown him nothing but the qualities of an excellent commander in the months they have known each other. Was he not just thinking as such? Was he not just seeking her opinion, because he has come to trust it as much as his own? She looks after her team and cares about the men who follow her banner, even though she has no responsibility to lead them. She is decisive without being thoughtless, steadfast in her decisions once made, and attentive to the needs of the group, often putting them above herself. If she was once as she said, a commander undeserving of the name, she has long since set that aside and risen above it. If anyone can find something admirable in that, it’s him.

He must take too long coming to his answer, because her face falls and she glances away. Her gelding, sensing the sudden tension in his rider’s seat, shifts and starts to prace uneasily, looking about for enemies. Evelyn gives a little half-laugh and soothes him back into a walk with a stroke of his neck, and when she looks up again Cullen is smiling at her.

“It’s a good thing, then,” he says deliberately, “that we met when we did.”

For once in his blighted life, he said exactly the right thing, because her face lights up. “A very good thing indeed,” she agrees, and goes loose and smiling in the saddle, her unhappy tension melted by one right word from him. In that moment, he feels more powerful than he ever did with lyrium in his veins. “I could do without the circumstances, but…”

She trails off, shrugs, but Cullen smiles back, because he knows exactly how she feels.

“I’m still glad I met you, too.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she tells him. And in the moment, he can’t do anything but agree.

**~*~**

They’re quiet for the rest of the ride, but it’s not a bad quiet, just a little worn from the weight of the discussion earlier, both of them retreating back into their own thoughts for a time. He would have expected to find his to be heavy and bitter, the way that they always are when he finds himself dwelling on the past, but to his surprise he spends the next few hours largely thinking of nothing. His mind feels washed clean and clear and oddly bright, like Lowtown streets just after a storm. At peace.

_Perhaps this is that "catharsis" thing all of the healers talked about after Kinloch,_ he thinks wryly. _It took me ten years, but I got there in the end._

Still, the quiet can’t last forever: Evelyn is irrepressible as a rule, and not overly given to brooding. Cullen can’t say the same about himself, but while the silence between them is comfortable, Cullen finds that he prefers the chatter, the movement and noise and friendship that lights up the air between them when they speak. It's a little disconcerting how quickly he's become accustomed to it, considering the relatively brief amount of time they've actually spent physically in the same place. The letters they have exchanged, which have come to feel like the best part of good days and a lifeline on the worst, are no substitute for having her next to him, laughing and making jokes and smiling at him like- like just being around him is something that makes her happy. Like _he_ can make her happy. Whatever responsibilities he is shirking in order to give this day to her, he would do it again and gladly.

Their conversation is back in full swing by the time that they make it up to the little hunting camp Evelyn used on her previous trip up the mountain. They dump their gear and then tie and rub down the horses in the gathering darkness, Evelyn telling him about the shards she's been finding all over, little chips of runestone worked in lyrium that's unlike anything she's ever seen.

"-and Solas thinks they're most likely a key to something, somewhere, but Maker only knows what or where. I'm honestly not sure if I even want to keep looking for the blasted things, they're always a pain to reach and using those skull things give me the willies every time. The shards feel harmless enough, but the occularum… There's dark magic at work there. I don't know how they're made, but I can tell you it's no good."

"But you've found shards in the possession of Venatori before," Cullen points out. She finishes tying the nosebag onto the halter of her mount and comes over to help him finish up the straps on his, her smaller fingers deft and practiced on the buckles. The Trevelyans of Ostwick are noted for their fame as horse breeders, he vaguely remembers. She may have gone to the Circle young, but at least some of the family trade made its way to her. "If agents of this Elder One are after these stones, doesn't it behoove us to try and get there first?"

"Maybe. It hasn't really been very high on my list of priorities, to be honest, but I suppose I can ask Josephine if she knows of any scholars that might be able to help us."

"Can't hurt." Their mounts seen to, Cullen gives his mare a last soothing stroke along her neck before turning his attention to the rest of the campsite. It's tidy enough, a ring of stumps around a makeshift fire pit already lined with stones, but a light dusting of snow covers the ground, and he knows from experience that it will turn to mud as soon as they get a campfire going. As well, the tents need to be set up, and there's very little daylight left. Nights come early this time of year, and they're on the east face of the mountain.

He looks over at Evelyn to see her making the same mental calculations, and quirks an eyebrow in question. "Flip you for who gets the firewood?"

"I'll gather it if you'll light it."

"Oh, but shouldn't that be left to the fire _expert?_ "

"Just for that, you get the wood," she says, and sends him off with a shove. He grumbles to himself- walked right into that one- but complies. As he heads off into the trees, a sudden light flares to life over his shoulder, and when he turns he sees that she's conjured a ball of magelight to hover in the air, throwing silvered light into the shadowed edges of the forest.

"Magic exists to serve man, et cetera," she calls, and he gives her a lazy wave of thanks before starting his search.

By the time he gets back, she's used a large branch of evergreen to brush all of the snow away from the site, strung up a tent out of sturdy oilcloth and stowed their gear safely away underneath, and has already traced a rune of fire onto the ground. He gives her a speaking look, which she returns with interest.

"I suppose it's easier than flint," he admits, and spurred by her smug grin, dumps his first armload of wood directly onto it. The resultant plume of flame nearly takes his eyebrows, but is entirely worth it from the way Evelyn scrambles back with undignified haste from her own spell.

"What the-" She leaps back to her feet with a lithe twist he's seen her use in the sparring ring, then catches him bent over laughing, his hands braced on his knees, and her resulting scowl is magnificent. "You absolute _arse,_ " she says, but the grin spreading across her face takes the bite out of the insult. "Is that your way of saying that you want me to help gather the rest?"

"If your ladyship would be so kind," he says, biting back the rest of his chuckles. She narrows her eyes.

"Ten says I get back here first."

"I'm not Varric, you're not going to get me to gamble with you," he tries to say, but she's off before he can even finish the sentence, and despite his best intentions he finds himself racing after her, laughter still bubbling in the back of his throat.

It’s full dark and bitingly cold by the time they make it back to camp, but the campfire is roaring happily and the rune that powers it puts out almost as much heat as the flame itself, so there’s little concern for the chill. Evelyn does beat him back by a matter of minutes, and proceeds to lord it over him as they get dinner out of their packs, teasing him about the ten royals he owes her despite his best efforts to point out that he didn’t agree to her wager. “Mother Matilda would have had me in the kitchens for a month had she caught a Templar gambling,” he says, laying out the trenchers of travel bread near the fire to warm. “It’s not going to happen.”

“Ah, but you’re a _former_ Templar, remember? No Chantry mother to make you peel potatoes.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but Haven isn’t exactly short on Chantry mothers,” Cullen points out dryly. “Nor would I want to risk the ire of our resident Seeker, either.”

“True enough. A cleric’s tongue might wield guilt with deadly accuracy, but I find a sharp blade rather harder to dodge.”

“I suspect you have experience enough at both,” he says, and startles her into a laugh.

“You’re not wrong, my friend, not wrong one bit.” She produces some dried meat and winter greens and good Fereldan cheese to round out the rest of their meal, then eyes the pile it produces. “I think we may have gone a bit overboard.”

All put together, he has to admit that it’s probably more than the two of them can comfortably eat in a single meal. He’s more active than he used to be, running drills every day, but still, he can’t eat like a lad still growing any longer, and Flissa’s breakfasts tend to stick to the ribs. “Maybe just the one trencher, and the rest for breakfast?” Some distant scrap of table manner manages to reassert himself, and he scrambles to add, “Unless you’d rather not share, of course.” Sharing a trencher has _connotations_ among Fereldens. Though perhaps Marchers don’t use them, not in well-bred families like hers, anyway.

She shoves at his shoulder affectionately. “Don’t be silly, it’s way too much food, else. Besides, sharing the plate makes it easier to share this.”

She pulls a hip flask out of her coat pocket and waggles it invitingly. “I scored part of a bottle of Antivan brandy off the good ambassador,” she says proudly. “The good stuff, mind, none of that rotgut the sailors like to claim cures chest colds and what-all else. You should be impressed.”

“I most certainly am,” he assures her, “because I know how fiercely Josephine guards her personal stock. You’d almost believe it’s made of liquid gold, the way she hoards it.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to try it and find out.” She grins up at him and makes a show of holding it out of reach. “Unless you’re too much the faithful Chantry boy to indulge in a few spirits, as well?”

“You know I’m not,” he growls, and uses his superior reach to snag it from her hands. He unscrews the cap and takes a sip before she can snatch it back, letting it roll across his tongue before he swallows.

“Well?”

“Lady Montilyet has a great appreciation for fine things,” he says, and Evelyn grins wide and snags it back out of his hands.

“Excellent. Just the thing for a night under the stars.”

They eat sitting next to each other on the big fallen log, the trencher balanced precariously between them. After the first couple sips the flask goes back into her coat pocket, the salted meat forcing them to drink from the waterskin instead, but after they’ve managed to plow through their supper Evelyn fetches their bedrolls and they make a little nest of blankets and slouch lazily in front of the fire, their shoulders butted together companionably, passing the flask back and forth.

Cullen tips his head back against the big log they’ve appropriated as a backrest and stares up at the night sky, full and sleepy from the good food and better spirits, feeling happier than he has in months. Years, more like. The washed-clean feeling from earlier still lingers, leaving his usually restless thoughts unusually peaceful, and he feels flushed and warm from Evelyn’s trim weight against his side, her low laugh in his ear. It’s a beautiful night, and he has a beautiful woman on his arm, a dear friend at his side, and he's the lucky bastard that those two people are one in the same. The world isn’t ending just yet, and while tomorrow everything will change, for tonight, he has this.

“You know, there was a time in my life I would have given my right hand to do something like this,” Evelyn sighs. He glances over to see her similarly sprawled, looking upwards at the stars rather than at him. “Outside, under the stars…"

"You have a hidden appreciation for astronomy?"

"...handsome Templar at my side…"

He just laughs, letting his head loll back against the log with none of his usual awkwardness. He just can't seem to summon it right now. "You used to daydream about spending the night outside with a Templar?"

"Well, one Templar in particular," she says. He can hear the little grin in her voice. "I used to have the _worst_ crush on one of the recruits. He was always assigned to the libraries, and I think there were a few months where that was the only thing that motivated me to do any actual studying."

Her tone is fond, a little nostalgic, no remembered sorrow in her voice. Still- "I don't think much of his Knight-Commander, if he let it go on so long."

"That implies the poor lad wanted anything to do with me," she says dryly. "I think he actually preferred men, although to be fair, that may have been based on little else but my friend's attempt to salve my teenage ego."

Cullen snorts and lets his weight come to rest a little heavier against her. He should have realized that her youthful forbidden dalliances would not have the same stain of tragedy as his own. A more heart-whole woman he's never met. "Well, you clearly recovered somehow."

"I'm wounded, Cullen. Absolutely wounded. I resent that remark deeply."

"Either my ears deceive me or the drink has gotten the better of your tongue already.” She quirks an enquiring eyebrow and he adds with relish, “I believe you meant to say you _resemble_ that remark."

She makes a noise of outrage and shoves at his shoulder. “Arse!”

The shove is harder than expected, and he lurches a little sideways, flailing his hand to grab at the log and pull himself back up, chuckling. Once there, it seems more comfortable just to leave it, stretched out along the wood behind her shoulders. "Or perhaps I might be the one who's had a bit too much of that brandy."

"There's still half the flask left," she snorts. "Either you're a lightweight, or I may have some apologies to make to Josephine about the quality of Antivan liquor."

"I think it's rather a bit of both, most likely." He tilts his head down to smile at her. She's really quite close, he thinks distantly. "So your crush never went anywhere?"

"Alas! It was not to be." She tips her chin back to look at him and gives him an insinuating smirk that causes warmth to flush down through his belly. "Although I may have found a balm for my broken heart, here and there."

"Somehow I find myself unsurprised.”

She shrugs, unbothered by his dry tone. “I like nice things. Sometimes nice things like me back. Who's going to complain about that?"

"Only the wrongest of individuals, I'm sure."

"Exactly!" She wriggles into a stretch, arching until her spine gives a great cracking _pop_ so intense he can almost feel it, then going limp in the aftermath. It leaves her with her head lolling further back against the log, resting against his arm, and she blinks up at him. "Anyway, what about you? Any ill-advised affairs you want to confess?"

He laughs, low and rough. _Should have known that was going to come back to me,_ he thinks, but the usual rush of shame and grief doesn't come. "I had a bit of a thing for one of the apprentices at Kinloch Hold," he finds himself confessing. "It didn't go anywhere, of course, but-"

"Cullen!" Evelyn sits almost entirely upright for a moment, the largest grin spreading across her face. "You terrible rule-breaker, you."

"I did _not,_ " he huffs, but he's smiling. It's the only time he's smiled thinking of Solona Amell in nearly ten years. "I would never."

"Of course you wouldn't," she says, patting his arm comfortingly. She doesn’t move her hand afterwards, and doesn’t seem to notice the way it lingers in the crook of his elbow when she slouches back against the log. She’s curled a little closer against him, too. "So what was she like?"

A better man likely wouldn't speak of a previous _tendre_ to another woman like this, but their friendship has survived odder challenges, so he takes a moment to consider it. Solona has always been frozen in his memory the way he last saw her before the uprising: her brand-new enchanter's robes fitting her like a second skin, her long hair draped down her back like a wedding veil and that curious, friendly smile on her face that warmed her eyes and made him feel like he was the only person in the world. It's an image that was both comfort and goad for a long time, the place he retreated from the blood mages until even that was corrupted.

But for the first time in a long while, he finds himself thinking of her as he saw her _last,_ her hair chopped up short around her earlobes and her armor streaked with blood and soot. She'd held her staff like the knight behind her held his sword, and there was a dagger in her belt, and soldier's marks done in dark ink on her left cheek. He wouldn't have recognized her, if he hadn't dreamed of her for so long.

Her eyes had been warm then, too: warm, and kind, and oh so terribly pitying.

_She was the bloody Hero of Ferelden,_ he thinks, and for the first time it feels like the truth. He'd always known it in abstract, but he'd never really been able to connect the sweet girl he'd dreamed of with the woman who slew the Archdemon in the middle of Denerim and ended the Blight. But it was always her. She'd not changed, not really. It was only his perception that differed.

"She was… bright," he says. It comes out halting, but Evelyn only nods encouragingly. "Clever, I mean. Easily the most talented mage of her class. And pretty. All the apprentice lads used to trail about after her."

"Oh yeah? But she only had eyes for you?"

Despite himself, he chuckles. "Oh, I don't know about that. She was nice to me, though. Most of the apprentices wouldn't talk to a Templar if you paid them, but she…" He shrugs. "She was kind."

"There's worse affections to have," Evelyn says, and he barks a laugh.

"Yes. I suppose there are."

"There, see? That wasn't so painful."

Worse than she could possibly know- but so much easier, as well. So much easier than he ever would have thought. _They tell you that time heals all wounds,_ he thinks wryly, _but that always seems like such shit at the time. Maybe there's something to it after all._

"Perhaps it's the company," he says, and she dimples up at him, tucked close in the curve of his arm. She's close enough that he can feel the heat of her body even through his armor, but he doesn't feel the need to move away.

No, he doesn't feel the need to move _away_ at all.

"Well, I'll almost certainly take the credit if you're willing to give it," she says, and it's not his imagination- her voice is definitely lower, now. Almost husky.

"I'm always happy to give credit where it's deserved."

"And your good regard is so difficult to attain, I can take that as nothing less than the highest of compliments."

He smiles down at her, soft and open and almost certainly stupidly obvious with his affection. He can't even help himself. "I save them for the deserving."

"Oh, Maker, Cullen," she laughs, a little breathless, and grins up at him. "You're going to make me blush. Honestly."

"I didn't even think you capable," he teases, and she flails her hands a little.

"Neither did I!"

Her cheeks _are_ pinking up a little. "It's rather fetching on you."

"You-" Her loose, smiling mouth purses into a scowl. “See if _you_ look so fetching without eyebrows.”

He doesn’t quite manage to bite his tongue in time. “So you’re saying _I’m_ fetching?”

She tilts her head back enough to glare at him. “I haven’t had enough brandy that I’m walking into _that_ one.”

He looks down at her, her long, lean body cradled in the curve of his arm, looking up at him with her flushed cheeks and her narrowed eyes and her reluctant smile, and he thinks, _I could kiss her right now._

The last time he found himself thinking that, it was with a sense of discovery, a new thing he was learning about himself. This is not a new thing, now. There’s nothing informative in the thought- just the _surety_ of it, feeling it like a sinking weight in the very bones of him. He’s wanted to kiss her for some time now- has wanted, no matter how he might have mentally dismissed the urge as mere infatuation, a great deal more than that.

“Cullen?” she says, and he realizes that he’s missed his cue, too busy thinking about her lips. He can feel the back of his neck flush hot but his voice is steady and just a touch rueful when he says, “You'll have to forgive me. It seems I’m the one who’s bad a bit too much brandy.”

She gives him another quick, assessing glance, but he must have covered well enough because she gives up on her mock-affront in favor of a loose, happy smile. “I think I might owe Josephine an apology for casting aspersions on the quality of Antivan liquor in the past. I have quite learned my lesson, I assure you."

"Yes, I do believe I have been underestimating our good ambassador. No woman who can drink this stuff on a regular basis is anything less than fearsome."

"Alas," Evelyn says. "I believe we've effectively proven I have little head for spirits. I'm afraid I don't qualify, then."

"Oh no, you're fearsome in other ways," he assures her. He can feel his own smile quivering in the corner of his mouth, and has to bite his cheek to keep it from breaking free.

"I hope you mean my wit and charm."

"Your affinity for fire doesn't hurt, either," he says, and laughs when she gives a little growl and shoves him. It's considerably weaker than her earlier effort. One might think that she wasn't trying hard to push him away.

He can't just lean in and kiss her. He knows he can't, and yet the ache of wanting it is almost physical, a tightness in his throat and a lodestone in his belly. The want of it makes his voice unusually rough when he says, "You're delightful." He clears his throat. "Don't mind me."

"I never-" she says, and is abruptly cut off by a yawn. Her hand flashes up to her mouth to cover it, and she half-laughs as she finishes, shaking her head as if to clear it. "-do," she finishes, and snorts. "Maker. Apparently I have even less of a head for liquor than I thought."

"Ah, then you're in good company," he says lightly. Still, it's a signal he can't ignore, and he shifts slightly, prepared to rise. "We should seek our beds, however. We've a rise before dawn tomorrow, and a long ride down."

"I know," she says, and doesn't move. She has her head tipped back, looking up at the stars once more, and he can't entirely help the way that he stares at her profile, the beautiful strong line of her jaw, the sharp cut of her cheekbone, the way her long dark lashes fan against her cheek when she blinks. "In a minute. I- Just give me a few moments more."

"Have as many as you need," he says, and resettles himself back down. His arm slides down till his hand rests on her opposite shoulder, encircling her almost into an embrace, and he prepares to shift away, but she only moves closer. He swallows hard and tips his head back, looking up at the clear expanse of the night sky. "It is a beautiful night."

"Yeah," she says. There's a long hesitant moment, and then she tips her head sideways till it's resting on his shoulder, and when he doesn't move to stop her she gives a little satisfaction that he feels all the way down to his toes and goes limp against him. "It is."

He wraps his arm tighter around her shoulders and says nothing at all.

**~*~**

The next morning is less awkward than he would have expected, given that they never did manage to rouse themselves enough to seek their beds. There just doesn't seem to be room for awkwardness in the hushed predawn quiet, the pair of them shivering and hunched into their cloaks as they bundle up their packs. Even with the sharp bite of the frigid winter air coming down the mountain, Cullen still feels the phantom warmth of her along his side as he works. He'll likely hold the memory of waking up to see her sleeping face pressed against his shoulder, lit up by the warm glow of the dying fire, for weeks and months to come. As much as he wished he'd the courage to kiss her and damn the consequences, he finds that for this morning, at least, he has no regrets. Her affection, and her trust, is a gift he would not willingly relinquish for any price.

They finish packing and load up the horses in silence, Evelyn finishing first and breaking away to stamp out the remaining coals. He gets out the remaining trencher of bread and tears it in two while she sets the fire pit for the next enterprising soul that ventures this far up the slope, and when she comes back he offers her half.

"I believe I promised you breakfast in the morning," he says, and his voice comes out rusty. It's the first thing either of them have said since she woke enough to give him a silvery-sweet smile and shed their blankets as she rose to start the day. She grins and takes it.

"And you are a man of your word." She shoves the hunk of bread precariously atop her pack- his own is already stashed away, to be eaten on the ride down- and when she turns back, there's a shy smile on her face. "Thanks."

He rests his hands on the hilt of his sword, the better to keep from rubbing the back of his neck, a tell even he knows is obvious. "It was simple enough."

"No, I mean- Thanks." She looks down, then makes a frustrated noise and looks back up, meeting his eyes directly. Maker, he forgets sometimes just how bright her eyes are; even in the predawn twilight, they almost seem to glow. "For this. All of this. I have an idea what it meant for you to come out here like this, and I appreciate it. It means more to me than you can know."

Perhaps. Probably, even. But it meant more to him than she knows, as well, and he lets that show on his face when he gives her a smile, slow and sure. "You're welcome."

She smiles back, a little shy, and it stirs something in his chest. He thinks back to Solona, to being a lad in love with the idea of a girl: the way he'd dream of her, the way he'd feel sick just looking at her, the way he'd longed for her smiles and was terrified of getting one. Despite his best efforts to forget that time in his life, he's always thought that maybe that was what affection was supposed to be.

But his dreams are of darker things, these days, and he prefers the waking world. He doesn't find himself longing for Evelyn's smiles because she gives them to him freely and with little fanfare, and wrings them easily from him in return. And he doesn't feel sick looking at her, but warm, and settled. Strong. Like he's more than a collection of scrap metal and rust with barely the will to hold it together.

He isn't in love with the idea of Evelyn, but he cares deeply for the truth of her, the awkwardness and rough edges and regret, and more still the deep well of kindness that she covers with a quip. He joined the Inquisition because he needed a purpose and could no longer trust himself to his Templar vows, and he found that. He would have that even had Evelyn never stumbled out of the Fade. But he wouldn't have found someone that could understand him so well, that could give him so exactly what he needed without even seeming to know why. He wouldn't have found a friend.

And though the dark curve of her lower lip sings a siren song in the bottom of his chest, he'd not trade a thousand kisses for one moment of her good regard.

On impulse- the same mad impulse that drove him that first morning in Haven, watching her walk to the Chantry looking much too overwhelmed to be a hero- he puts his fist to his heart and bows low. "Lady Herald," he murmurs, and when he straightens, she doesn't have the slightly sick long that the title usually elicits. Instead, her little smile grows wider, the way it always does when he manages to say the right thing.

"Lord Commander," she says, and returns both the salute and the bow, to the exact degree of deepness as he gave her. Then she drops her hand to her side and dimples up at him as she puts her hand to her horse's saddle. "Shall we?"

"After you," he says, and she laughs, puts her foot in the stirrup and swings up into the saddle. Cullen follows suit and they ride out of camp, Cullen's mare following hard on the heels of Evelyn's gelding.

As they pick their way down the patch, Cullen looks up ahead, at her narrow shoulders with the staff fixed in its harness across the back, flakes of snow shook loose from the branches above to the collar of her cloak and the ball of magelight in her palm that paints strands of pure silver into her ravenswing hair. _My lady,_ he thinks, and: _I would follow her into the gates of the Void itself._

It's strangely comforting, to know so clearly for the first time in years where his fate lies. He doesn't know what the day will bring, but he knows that he will follow her gladly whatever the path. He trusts her, deep down in the bones of him, and he knows that she will not lead him astray.

And if sometimes he thinks that she might think of him the same, that she might look at him with a needfulness of her own- Well. He has faith that they will come to figure that out, too, in time. He knows Evelyn is not so sure, but he cannot find it in himself to believe that she will fail to close the Breach this day, that she will do anything but set her iron will against its might and emerge triumphant. His faith, once won, is hard to lose. And he has given his faith to far less deserving causes than she.

Evelyn's sharp whistle cuts through his thoughts, and he looks up to see that she's gotten a bit ahead of him down the path. She twists around in the saddle to grin at him. "Come on, Cullen, stop dawdling. We've got a world to save, you know."

"Mustn't keep the people waiting," he calls back, and spurs his horse after her. "Time to go be heroes."

Yes, he thinks, as the first blush of dawn sends fingers across the sky. They'll have time. After the Breach, they'll have all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man this is done. *huge sigh*
> 
> According to my gdocs record, I started working on this almost exactly eight months ago. _Good gravy._ I actually totally set it aside when I detoured into writing Jupiter Ascending for a while, at which point this story was most of the way done, and was only able to come back and finish it when Trespasser came out and got me back into playing this game again. I do believe this is the longest story I have ever completed, and it at this point I feel every damn word of it.
> 
> I didn't want to put this at the beginning of the story because I'd rather let the character stand for herself, but if anyone is curious I have a pretty extensive screenshot library for this character [on imgur here](http://imgur.com/a/WyIJ5). It currently goes up through arriving at/getting settled in Skyhold, but I'm updating it as I play. (Doing my canon game now that Trespasser is out, and actually shooting for a 100% playthrough for the first time.)
> 
> I don't have a proper playlist together for this story, but I do have a handful of songs that were particularly influential during the writing process at different times:  
> ["I Wanna Get Better" - The Bleachers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8twpQTna_9w)  
> ["Something that I Want" - Grace Potter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emlPJhmRAfI)  
> ["Best Look Lately" - Dear Rouge](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UeQ_OoNl5v4)  
> ["The Longest Time" - Billy Joel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_XgQhMPeEQ)
> 
> I do intend to continue this in some form, probably collection of scenes from the rest of the series, but I do have a couple of other fics that I want to finish up and get posted before I dive back in. I've got a couple scenes more or less done, so I might try to get those posted in the next couple weeks, depending on how things look with work and such. Fingers crossed!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [sorrelchestnut](http://sorrelchestnut.tumblr.com/) on tumbr. Come say hi!


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